


SCHWING AWAKENING (A PROM MUSICAL FANFIC)

by isnarkaholic



Category: The Prom - Sklar/Beguelin/Martin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnarkaholic/pseuds/isnarkaholic
Summary: Alyssa wants to do more than kiss...but does Emma feel the same?





	1. Chapter 1

February 17th  
7:23 AM

“Mom, please! Just this one time!”

“Alyssa, you're really annoying me. I've said 'no' twice, and I'm not going to change my mind. Don't ask me again.”

“B-but it's on a Saturday! And it's rated PG! And you know Shelby's p-parents! And I promise I'll come straight home afterward! And her dad said he'd give me a r-ride to and from the theate-”

Any remaining trace of patience now gone, she shouted, “You're not going, and that's final!” 

And then, with an icy glare, my mother walked out of my bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

And I slammed my face into my pillow and screamed.

8:31 AM

“Alyssa?”

“What?!” I snapped.

“Excuse me?!?” Mrs. Cole, my First Period Lit teacher exclaimed, the razor-sharp edge in her voice yanking me out of my internal rage and back into my desk chair.

Aghast that I'd been dwelling on my mother's earlier, cruel decision rather than paying attention in class, I quickly said, “Uh, sorry. I meant...what?”

“I was wondering if you would care to join the rest of us in this discussion?” 

“Of course,” I replied without hesitation.

Mrs. Cole nodded. “Very well, then, what did I just ask you?”

“Uh, um, hm, ah, er...”

Speaking more slowly, she said, “Alright, I'll repeat my question, and please pay attention this time. What is the perfect crime?”

Having no idea how she expected me to answer, I settled for the best (well, only) alternative available to me: inventing wildly.

“Well, uh, the perfect crime is jaywalking. You get the thrill of having broken the law, with none of its repercussions...unless, of course, you get blindsided by a bus.”

Now struggling to keep her voice even, my teacher replied, “No, Miss Greene, I was referring to Warren Yate's quote, the one he said to his band of thieves before they decided to tunnel their way into the bank vault.”

“Oh,” I replied, but was still unable to give her an answer.

She was not pleased.

“You have been reading this semester's novel: A Twist Of Yate.”

It was not a question.

“Yes, ma'am,” I assured her. (What I didn't mention is that, thanks to workload-induced exhaustion, I'd fallen asleep while reading last night's assigned chapter and didn't have time this morning to catch up before class. Thus, I hadn't yet seen the quote to which she was referring.)

Mrs. Cole looked like she was contemplating sitting me down later for a serious one-on-one discussion or, a far more terrifying prospect, calling my mother.

“I'm really sorry,” I said, and meant it, but by the end of class it was obvious that she still hadn't decided whether or not to let me off the hook, and I walked out of the room filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. This was completely unfair. I mean, yes, I had been rude, and (in her mind) had blown off last night's assignment, but she was also well aware that I'm a good student. 

Second Period History was worse.

“Ms. Greene?”

Still seething from my earlier battle with Mom, I nonetheless managed to answer with surprising calmness, “Yes?”

“Why is Elizabeth the First known as 'The Virgin Queen?'”

...but, still only half-paying attention, I replied, “Because she couldn't get laid?”

And the classroom erupted in laughter.

Quickly realizing my grievous error, I added, “Ha-ha, just joking!”

“Well, I'm not joking when I tell you to focus.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's not like you to be anything less than completely attentive.”

“I'm really sorry, Mr. Davis.”

My apology seemed to satisfy him. Regardless, I couldn't wait to get out of there, and the instant the bell rang, I sprinted toward the door. Unfortunately, several of my classmates were right behind me, and deliberately followed me down the hall while bombarding me with...

Pointed Questions: “It must really suck not being able to get laid, huh?”

Bad Poetry: “Now I laid me down to sleep - but he blew me off, that fucking creep!”

and Worse Song: “A'lay in a manger my crib he has fled, so I laid here frustrated I can't get no head!”

At last, sanctuary was in sight, and I darted gratefully into the (relative) quiet of the school library; but soon realized that my morning's ordeal was far from over. The only books I could find on my assigned research project were huge, hefty tomes.

And I needed five of them!

Thirty minutes later, with my fully-loaded backpack's seams threatening to burst, I lurched, Quasimodo-like, down to the end of the second floor's west wing, and then turned the corner...

...and there it was!

And, for the moment, the crushing weight(s) on my shoulders felt at least somewhat lighter.

Hurrying as best I could, I finally reached the band closet. With a deep sigh of relief, I turned the knob and yanked the door open. However, my eager anticipation soon turned to confusion as I found myself gazing, not at her smiling face, but into inky blackness. 

Instinctively reaching inside the doorway and groping along the wall for the light switch, I called out, “Emma?”

“No one here by that name!” was the gruff reply; but I distinctly heard the smile in her voice.

Eventually my palm made contact with the light switch. Turning it on, I looked around, and soon found Emma - at the left-hand end of the room - flat against the wall on the far side of the musical instruments cabinet.

“You suck at hide-and-seek,” I informed her.

“Only because you turned the lights on,” she retorted.

“Why are you waiting in the dark?” I asked, closing the door behind me. “You've never done that before.”

“Well,” she began, “I left the door unlocked for you, like I always do.”

“Yes?”

“And I heard footsteps approaching, but they sounded a lot heavier than yours, and I didn't want to get busted, so I decided to hide.”

“I sounded like that because my backpack is full,” I answered, struggling – and failing - to shrug it off.

She had to help me.

“Wow, what do you have in here...bricks?”

“Worse,”I replied. “Library books.”

With an overly-dramatic sigh, and wearing an expression of grim resignation, Emma started moving toward the door, saying, “Well, with all that studying to do, you're going to be far too busy the next few weeks for anything else, so I'll just be on my wa-”

I pinned her to the wall easily. 

“Oh, no you won't!” I informed her.

She opened her mouth to 'protest', but what she would have said is anyone's guess, because I cut her off with a kiss.

A minute or twelve later, I leaned back and looked into her eyes. “Well, Emma, how's your day going so far?”

She smiled broadly. “It just improved considerably. And yours?” she asked...

...and suddenly the full impact of all the morning's injustices came rushing back, hitting me like several fists in the face. Not wanting to talk about it, for any number of reasons, I shrugged.

“That bad, huh?”

Instead of replying, I dropped my gaze to the floor.

A long moment passed, and then I heard her say, tentatively, “Alyssa?”

With difficulty, I raised my eyes to hers and, when I saw the sympathetic way she was looking at me, I bit my lower lip and threw my arms around her neck.

“Come here,” she said in a low voice, pulling me closer. A moment later, I felt her right hand caressing my back. 

“It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be.”

I knew she meant well but, based on overwhelming past evidence, I just didn't believe it. While Emma had first-hand experience with the insanity that is my mother, she still didn't know even 10% of what I personally endure, and so I shook my head.

“It's gonna be. Okay, Alyssa?” 

When I didn't respond, she leaned back and asked, “Will you tell me about it? What happened?”

Unable to reply, I looked back at the floor and shook my head again, now wishing I'd answered her question by saying things were fine.

Moments later, she took my face in her hands and lifted it gently, and once more I found myself looking into her eyes.

“Please?”

I knew I owed her some sort of explanation, however short, but I was equally sure that if I even attempted to speak, I'd start crying, so instead I leaned forward, just wanting her to hold me again.

Without hesitation, she pulled me close, and moments later I felt her lips on my neck and her her fingers in my hair.

I'm not sure how long we stood like this, but eventually she took a half-step back and asked, “Now will you tell me?”

Still unwilling/unable to get into it, I shook my head and took a half-step toward her, wanting to close the gap between us and to have her arms around me again; but as I did, was surprised to feel her hands on the front of my shoulders. Confused, I looked up, but before I could ask why she'd stopped me, she smiled warmly.

Moving her hands up onto my shoulders and carefully leaning me to the right, she said, “No, wait; over this way. I want to feel your heart.”

Leaning to her own right, she then pressed the left side of her chest against the left side of mine and pulled me close.

Automatically, I wrapped my arms around her. Despite the fact that I was standing a little off-balance, it felt so wonderful that, momentarily, I forgot everything that had been plaguing me all morning. 

“Oh, Emma” I breathed. “This is such a nice way to hug someone...to connect at the heart!”

She nodded.

As she stood me back upright, I tried to figure out what to say next, but before I could, she pulled me back into her arms, hugging me again in the usual way. As I settled against her, she reached up and moved my head down to rest on her right shoulder.

“How's that?” she asked.

After a long pause, I answered, in a shaky voice, “Can we just stay like this for a little while?”

“Yes,” she whispered and, moments later, she began caressing my back with both hands saying, “If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I just want you to know that, whatever it is, I'm right here.”

In response, I pressed myself closer to her and nodded.

After a few minutes of her hands moving rhythmically up and down my back, I managed to relax a little. I love the way it feels to be in Emma's arms. I mean, it would be even nicer if we didn't have to sneak around and could be affectionate in an actual house, rather than a band closet. Still, there are far worse places we could meet. I mean, compared to a dark alley or an abandoned dockside warehouse, these surroundings weren't so bad: 

On the wall behind me was a neat row of honor guard flags, their poles secured in tarnished metal brackets. Next to them was a floor-to-ceiling partitioned cabinet full of hard-sided cases which contained smaller instruments (flutes, clarinets, etc.). Next to that was a blank area of wall (where Emma had been hiding).

Adjacent to that, running along the left-hand wall, was an open, deep wooden bin made of cedar. It contained the band's wool, military-style uniforms, each in it's own linen garment bag, stacked in a pile, (probably lying flat because there was no space in here to install hanging rods). Atop the uniforms were several large, zippered duffel bags full of pom poms (the band had its own separate cheer squad). All of this was covered by an old, faded green canvas tarp. Marching Band season had ended back in November with our Thanksgiving varsity football game, so the uniforms and pom poms were no longer needed and had been put into storage.

Above the bin was a long shelf containing a row of french horns, several of them so dented that, if you studied your reflection in their bells, your face appeared so badly distorted that it looked like you needed to be rushed to the nearest Emergency Room.

Against the adjacent wall, behind where Emma was standing, were the larger instrument cases (trombones, etc.), and next to those were several stacks of plastic milk crates, each full of sheet music, much of it slightly yellowed and with curled edges.

Across the right-hand wall was a collection of drums with well-worn heads.

All in all, the room, while not exactly romantic, was still a safe haven where I could be myself...at least for a little while.

As Emma's hands continued to caress my back, I suddenly felt guilty for not making a single positive contribution to this meeting; and in an attempt to make amends, I said, “Emma, I'm sorry. I'll tell you about it - all of it - but can we please make it later?”

“Of course,” she said.

Taking a deep breath, I continued, “I-I'm afraid I haven't been very good company.”

“There's no such thing as a bad time with you,” she replied giving me a long, reassuring squeeze, and I actually smiled.

Leaning back, I looked at her, and opened my mouth to reply but, since I had no idea what to say, I kissed her instead.

Emma glanced down at her watch. “Um, I hate to be a spoilsport, but we only have four minutes left.”

“I wish we could stay,” I sighed.

After a moment's consideration, she suggested tentatively/hopefully, “Well, would you want to skip lunch?”

I shook my head.

“As much as I'd like to, I can't. My mother said something about stopping by around lunchtime today, and if I'm not there....” my voice trailed off. 

“I understand.” She hesitated and then asked, “Will she be coming tomorrow, too?

 

“No. I'm sure she won't, because she has to meet a client around that time.”

Emma pondered this for a moment and then asked, “Well, could we skip lunch then?”

I smiled. “Of course we can-hey, wait a minute! What's in the deal for me?” I demanded.

“I'll bring non-nutritious snacks!” she answered.

That settled it.

“What are your plans for this evening?” I asked her.

“I'll be home, if you want to call me.”

I paused to consider. “Well, it's not exactly what I had in mind, but...”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Something more along the lines of...” 

I finished my sentence non-verbally.

Peeking out of the band closet's door, Emma declared that the coast was clear and we left the room. With my usual twinge of sadness, I watched her head down the hall and then around a corner. Once she disappeared from sight, I turned, and with a sigh, walked off in the opposite direction, arriving two minutes later at the cafeteria.

Grabbing a tray, I made my way to the back of the line...

...which wasn't moving...

...because I found myself standing directly behind Barry Glickman and Dee Dee Allen.

Barry and Dee Dee (along with Angie and Trent) are Broadway celebrities who'd heard about the school's decision to cancel our spring prom and had taken it upon themselves to right the situation. They had already been here for nearly a week (and with no end in sight(!), but all they'd managed to do during that time was to (further) infuriate my mother, who referred to them as (among other things) “thoroughly obnoxious.”

Apparently the two of them spent the morning meeting with our principal and had then decided to have lunch here.

Unfortunately this was going to be easier said than done, because they and Stella (our resident lunch lady) were in the middle of a looooong altercation, part of which I've transcribed below:

Stella: “For the last time, sir, it's not that we're out of arugula, it's that we don't serve it in the first place.”

Barry: “This is completely unacceptable!”

Dee Dee: “Barry, it's not worth getting upset about! Just choose something els-”

Barry: “But they also don't have duck confit or lobster ravioli; so don't tell me not to get ups-”

Dee Dee: “It's not the end of the world.”

Barry: (To Dee Dee) “Okay, fine!” (To Stella) “Very well; please try to select something decent for us from your meager offerings.”

Dee Dee: (Staring at the plate she'd just been handed) “What did this used to be when it was alive?”

Stella: “That's boneless chicken.”

Dee Dee: “No bones? How did it walk?”

I'll spare you the rest. Looooong story short: by the time I finally got through the lunch line and into my chair, I had about five minutes left to chow down before running/lurching - at lightning speed and with queasy stomach - to my next class.

Still, as rotten as my day had been thus far, there was one tiny glimmer of hope: the anticipation of spending an entire lunch period (plus twenty minutes before(!) with Emma tomorrow helped me to endure the rest of the afternoon.

When I arrived home, I noticed that Mom's car wasn't parked in the driveway...

...which was awesome...

...because it meant that I could watch my favorite (forbidden) TV show: Backstabbers!

Sprinting/lurching into the house, I flipped the TV on and flung myself onto the couch.

Backstabbers, a trashy drama, features four incredibly catty women who work for a huge design firm and who spend most of every episode trying to destroy each others' careers/lives in the most underhanded ways imaginable. Lying? Stealing? Cheating? Ratting each other out? Cutting brake cables? All in a days work!

Near the end of today's episode, their boss, Mr. Lovejoy, called the four of them into his office, and a thrill of anticipation shot through me. We were about to find out who planted that blood-stained switchblade in Valerie's desk!

Eagerly, I leaned forward, elbows on knees....

...but at that moment, Mr. Lovejoy's dramatic reveal was drowned out by the sound of someone shouting, “What is that filthy show doing on our TV?!?”

I hadn't heard her come in.

As two uniformed police officers rushed through Lovejoy's office door to arrest the culprit, my mother planted herself squarely in front of me, blocking my view of the screen. 

Damn!

When I didn't answer, Mom reached down toward the remote lying on the coffee table and, extending her right index finger, jabbed the mute button.

The ensuing silence was deafening, but it (finally) occurred to me that she expected some sort of answer, and the best one I could come up with was, “This show's not that violent.”

“Violence is not the problem,” she retorted, “language is.”

Pretty sure I was in trouble (but unsure how much), I decided that the best course of action was to continue to (attempt to) defend myself. 

“But there was only one bad word,” I insisted, “and I already heard it on that show you and I watched last week!”

“What show?” she demanded.

“The Wonderful World of Dogs.”

Although momentarily taken aback, Mom was far from finished with me. “Didn't you know that this program is on the List of Offensive Shows published by our church?”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked toward the TV. “I can't believe this program made it past my Sin Sentry filter!” she fumed, turning it off while I, exasperated, got to my feet.

She noticed.

“Young lady, did you just roll your eyes?”

“Uh, I, uh...was trying to remember where I left my Sharpo marker. It's not in my backpack.”

“Alyssa, what have I said about being careless?”

I wanted to reply, “I can't believe you don't remember; you must have told me eleventy-million times!”

But I knew better.

So I nodded instead.

My mother stared at me for a long moment, and then said, “Now go wash up; it's time for dinner.”

Obediently I headed for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, I sat down in my dining room chair and watched my mother set dinner in the center of the table. As she lifted the lid, the most amazing aroma filled the air: Chicken chasseur, with tomatoes, garlic, and mushrooms; an earthy, warm, wonderful entree; perfect for a cold winter evening. Even though things between Mom and me are, well, difficult at best, I have to give credit where it's due: she's an absolutely incredible cook! Especially considering the schedule she has now. Before Dad left, Mom worked in real estate only part-time and was able to spend hours messing around in our kitchen (which she loves to do). Now that she's so busy, most of our meals are made in her crock pot, but they're every bit as delicious as before. Honestly, I don't know how she does it, only that every morning she throws a bunch of ingredients into it and, when we get home, the most amazing meals come out of it. 

Although Mom and I often eat in silence (which, believe me, is not necessarily a bad thing(!), tonight things seemed, well, silent-er (is that a word(?) than usual, and I wondered what was on her mind, finally concluding that she was still stressed out about her two real estate clients from hell: 

The Vanamans.

A synopsis: For the last three months, Fred and Marla Vanaman had been running Mom ragged, demanding that she arrange/accompany them to endless showings. Apparently the two of them couldn't agree on a house, which Mom found infuriating, but considering the price range of the homes they were looking at, and the fact that they'd been pre-qualified for a very substantial mortgage, she kept soldiering on with them. 

“Guess who called me this afternoon?” she asked.

“Mr. Vanaman?”

“No,” she replied, “Mr. Rapp.”

And my heart plummeted.

“Wh-why?” I asked, cringing inwardly.

“To tell me your grade on last week's Science project,” she replied shortly.

I didn't answer.

“He said he gave you an A-...which you somehow failed to mention.”

“I, uh, didn't think it was a big deal,” I replied, not quite meeting her piercing gaze.

“An A-, Alyssa?”

“That's almost an A.”

“It's almost a B,” she countered.

“It's almost an A!”

“No, it's almost a B!” she insisted, and then, leaning forward and with a very serious expression, she added, “Look at me.”

Obediently I raised my eyes to hers.

She stared at me for a long moment and then began, “Missy, your grades are slipping and that's unacceptable. You need to buckle down and apply yourself. Maybe you should start studying more, like during your free time.”

I wanted to yell, “What free time?!?” but I knew that would make things way worse, so I kept my mouth shut and nodded; hoping my mother was done haranguing me for the evening.

No such luck.

“Alyssa, I was emptying the wastebaskets this morning.”

With my full attention focused, laser-like, on seeing/seizing the first opportunity to escape, I replied, “Yeah?” in an off-handed way.

“And look what I found in yours.”

I cringed as she slapped four Chocolate Scrunch bar wrappers on the table.

When I didn't reply, she gave me The Look, and I felt my defenses go up.

“Come on, what's the big deal?”

“Four, Alyssa?? And don't tell me they've accumulated over time, because I last emptied the trash just two days ago.”

Just wanting the conversation to end, I nodded, but it was far from over.

“Four??” she repeated.

“Aw, Jeez, Mom, that's only chocolate; it's not like I'm snorting cocai-”

She cut me off with a look. 

Sinking down (even farther) in my chair, I added, meekly, “I like it; so why can't I eat it when I want to?”

“And ruin that flawless complexion? Absolutely not.”

A random thought suddenly occurred to me. “B-but, I read in one of your issues of Aggressive Parenting magazine that chocolate is good for you! It has antioxidants, and can help prevent heart disease, and has a whole lot of other benefits!”

Mom nodded curtly. “Yes, I remember that article. But those candy bars were dark chocolate and didn't have all these crunchy, uh, substances in them.”

When I didn't reply, she continued, “There's always a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Anytime you want a snack, you can help yoursel-oh, and while we're on subject of meals, I was passing through your cafeteria today and decided to see what was on the menu. I was shocked to find that all they're serving is processed garbage!”

When I didn't reply, she added, “For example, turkey tetra chloride.”

“Tetrazzini,” I corrected her.

Mom gave me a look. “I know that's what it's called. I was joking.”

“And it was so funny that I forgot to laugh,” I thought.

“And so,” Mom continued, “after looking into the situation more closely, I've decided to have you start taking your lunch to school every day.”

“Yeah?” I answered, not really caring one way or the other.

“Yes,” she answered, “And when I was in the basement this morning, I found just the thing!”

A moment later, she slapped it onto the table...

...and looking down, I stared, horrified...

...at my old Christy the Christian lunchbox, which I hadn't seen/used since grade school!

For the record, Christy the Christian is a dumb kiddie show that appears every afternoon on Mom's favorite TV channel: Christian Revival-Approved Programming (C.R.A.P.).

Anyway, this goody-two-shoes Christy thinks she's God appointed policeman and patrols her entire city, looking for wrong-doers and steering them into church.

With a 100% success rate!

No matter how much of an unruly heathen you are, after a few eye-opening remarks from Christy, which include thinly-veiled references to spending eternity in hell, your ass is in the pew. 

By the end of the episode, you're on your knees at the alter, accepting Jesus, while Christy smiles down on you piously. This is always followed by a hard-hitting sales pitch to buy (heaps of) Christy-themed merchandise. 

But that's not the worst of it.

Six months after the show launched, they were sued...for blatant copyright infringement of another show: Cathy the Catholic.

Cathy's the Catholic's lawyers alleged (correctly) that Christy's character and show were an obvious ripoff of their own, and an ugly, protracted legal battle ensued.

Once the dust (finally) settled, Christy the Christian was still allowed to air, provided that certain conditions were met.

Among other things, the Christy lunchbox was deemed too similar to Cathy's and changes had to be made; one of which was switching the box's color from pale pink to another shade of pink...one which can only be described as howling fuchsia.

And the one my mother bought for me was the latter version.

And now she expected me to carry the garish thing to school every day???

In short, a fuchsia lunchbox (not to mention a Christy one(!), would be glaringly visible to every single student in the cafeteria, making me the guaranteed target of relentless social ridicule.

As I continued staring at it, in slack-jawed horror, my brain sent me a stern message:

You've suffered enough for one day! 

I agreed silently, realizing that I needed to get the hell out of there. Fortunately there was a way; one that Mom never argued about.

“I have a lot of homework,” I announced (a blatant lie).

It always worked.

Two minutes later, I was sprinting (well, as quickly as my overstuffed backpack would allow) up the stairs to my bedroom.

As the last rays of late afternoon sunlight slid horizontally through my window, I kicked my shoes off and fell backwards onto the bed; and suddenly, I desperately needed to hear Emma's voice. (Oh, for the record, I always make sure to call, not text, people (no written record for Mom to read, duh.) Anyway, even though this call was to be purely social, I wasn't worried. I often call my classmates to discuss homework; so as long as I had a notebook, pen, and open textbook on the bed next to me, Mom would suspect nothing.

Realizing that my phone was still in my backpack, which I'd left on my desk over by the bedroom door, I began to sit up, but then lay back down.

What an absolutely brutal day.

So I'll just lie here and vegetate.

For a minute. 

I opened my eyes to complete darkness.

Shit!

Whipping my head to the right, I looked over at my bedside alarm clock. 

11:03 pm.

Shit-Shit-Shit!!!

I hadn't meant to conk out, and now it was way too late to call Emma (Mom had made it very clear to me that I was to make/take Absolutely No phone calls past ten-thirty, a rule I didn't dare defy, knowing that if I did, she'd confiscate my phone for an entire month). But as maddening as this law was, I was even more furious with myself since, before leaving the closet, Emma told me she'd be home and had invited me to call.

And now I'd blown the chance. 

Lifting my head from the pillow, I listened carefully. The house was completely quiet, which meant that Mom had gone to bed. Thank God; at least I'd be able to study in peace.

I managed to finish catching up on my Lit reading, my only pressing assignment, in about thirty minutes; and then, with a combination sigh/groan, I rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom. 

Without exception, I shower twice per day; not just because of the cleanliness = Godliness thing, but because I love it everything else about it: the solitude; the water beating down on my shoulders like a massage, its sound (sort of) distracting me from the endless cacophony in my brain; and then finally emerging feeling like I'd managed to get rid of at least some of the day's trash. 

Forty minutes later, I walked out of the bathroom, wearing my 'heavenly blue' Sherman the Sheep pajamas. 

For those not familiar, Sherman the Sheep is an idiotic, Christian-themed cartoon for young children. Like most sheep (I suppose), Sherman wears a collar, but instead of a bell, there's a huge cross hanging from it. Since I haven't watched the show for more than a decade, I don't really remember any of the plots, only that Sherman spent most of every episode pointing out the glaring faults of the “b-a-a-a-dly-behaved goats” (see Matthew 25:31-33) who showed up regularly in Sherman's pasture sporting their exaggerated 'devil' horns, sin-red baseball caps, and the occasional cigarette dangling from their front hooves; while chewing tin cans...that had beer labels on them!

I looked down at my pajamas, which featured a repeating pattern of Sherman's dumb face, and sighed.

My mother had actually given me these.

Last Christmas.

She still thinks I'm a child, further evidenced by the fact that these jammies are size XL, which means that she must have bought them in the store's Kiddie department.

Wearily I pulled my covers down and climbed into bed but, thanks to my earlier three-and-a-half-hour nap, I wasn't the least bit sleepy. After a valiant attempt to nod off, I finally gave up and lay staring at the ceiling, its wide expanse of black occasionally interrupted by the headlights of cars driving past our house. 

Wondering who the drivers were and where they were going.

Imagining that they were heading home and into the arms of someone they adore.

Wishing that Emma was lying here beside me.

However, she wasn't, so I was forced to settle for looking back on the times we spend together in the band closet.

Recalling the way her eyes light up every single time I walk through the door.

Remembering that, no matter how awful a day I might be having, she always manages to make it more bearable.

Wishing that I could reach over right now and hold her.

Wishing, however, wasn't enough and I couldn't, so instead I did what I do every night: Rolling onto my left side, I grabbed my spare pillow. Curling up with it, I pulled Emmapillow back against my chest and sighed.

It was bad enough that Emma and I only saw each other for such a short time each day and that we got to do so little during that ti- I mean, the hugs and kisses are very enjoyable, but I wish that we could be together like this, lying with our bodies entwined, the warmth of hers helping to shield mine from the cold, damp loneliness that always seems to permeate my bedroom, no matter what the season.

For the first thing I see each morning when I open my eyes to be her sleepy smile.

Hugging Emmapillow more tightly, I pulled the covers up over us both.

It's so unfair!

All of it!

I'd gladly endure ten times the stress and browbeating I'm currently subjected to if I could spend at least a small part of every day lying with her like this. 

But, I realized with a sigh, it just isn't possible.

XXXXX

I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I woke up before the alarm, my arms still holding Emmapillow. I had no idea why I'd awakened at that particular moment, but as I lay there without moving, and with eyes still closed, I suddenly became aware of a very unusual phenomenon: 

My mind was completely empty. 

Somehow, the countless, soul-crushing problems that pervade my brain non-stop had disappeared, at least temporarily, leaving me alone with a wide, dense, gray sea of fog.

And I loved it.

And welcomed it. 

And let myself get lost in it. 

I didn't dare move or open my eyes, terrified that if I did, the spell would be broken and the echos of other peoples' endless criticisms would come rushing back...and so I lay there, breathing slowly and deeply, reveling in the stillness, letting the hazy, misty silence swirl around me - and through me - thinking of nothing except my mind's calming numbness, and wishing it would last forever.

However, as all good things must come to an end, this one did...

...but not at all in the awful manner I'd expected. 

Instead, the vast expanse of lovely, gray nothingness was interrupted in a very different way: 

With a single, extraordinary idea.

Not a perfect one, to be sure, but one so inspired that in that moment I couldn't believe I had actually conjured it. 

At first I thought that my groggy mind must be mistaken and, from force of habit, began second-guessing myself. But even after the harsh scrutiny of close examination on all sides, I had to admit that it was a solid...no, an incredible...idea! 

It also meant that credit was due and, with a proud sense of accomplishment, I rolled over onto my back with a wide smile, re-examining my idea, while realizing that the more I thought about it, the more appealing it became. 

It's amazing what you can come up with when the rest of the world, which constantly conspires to force crap upon you, leaves you alone to think for yourself for a frickin' minute!

My silent celebration ended abruptly with Mom on the other side of my bedroom door, yelling at me not to dawdle.

But I didn't care.

Because it was gonna be a great day!

Less than ten minutes later, I was in the shower and grinning broadly.

Forty-five minutes later, I was cheerfully enduring a breakfast table lecture about how I had completely screwed up sorting last week's recyclable items.

Ninety minutes later, I was looking out the school bus window, oblivious (for once) to the roar of noise all around me.

Getting through my Lit and History classes was harder but I did my best since, after what happened in them the day before, I didn't want to let my mind wander again and make things worse.

Still, I kept one eye on the wall clock, which was crawling forward at a maddeningly-slow pace; and the instant third period Study Hall ended, I jumped up from the library table and hurried out the door.

I couldn't wait to share my revelation with Emma!

But, as I turned into the second floor's west wing corridor, I deliberately slowed my steps.

How should I tell her? 

And when? 

Would she think of my idea was it really a good one after all? 

What if she didn't even like...what if she hated it?

I wished that I'd tackled these questions during this morning's quiet solitude, because now my brain was full, and I was pretty much out of time. The best plan I could come up with on the fly: to evaluate her/the situation carefully, hoping I pick a good moment, and that upon hearing my idea, she won't flatly reject it.

Having decided on a course of action (albeit, not a perfect one), I realized that I was now less than a minute from seeing Emma(!), and so I broke into a run, skidding to a halt in front of the band closet. 

With a fast glance up and down the corridor (there was no one in sight), I turned the knob and yanked the door open; and a familiar thrill shot through me as I found myself gazing at...

...a King-sized Chocolate Scrunch bar...

...its unwrapped end pointed directly at my face...

...only two inches from my mouth.

Leaning forward, I took a huge, enthusiastic bite.

“Ow! My fingers!” Emma exclaimed as I, mouth too full to reply, hurried into the room, shutting the door behind me. 

Once my initial bite (of chocolate, not Emma's fingers(!) went down the hatch, I took a step toward Emma and leaned forward but, instead of letting me kiss her, she leaned back and shook her head.

Looking into my eyes, and with a very serious expression, she said, “No, Alyssa. Business before pleasure,” and then, taking my arm, she led me across the room, over to the chest-high stacked sheet music crates.

She had draped her jacket across three of them, and on top of it was spread an impressive array of junk food. 

Enough for at least six people.

But meant for only two. 

She gestured toward it with a broad sweep of her hand; and I needed no further invitation.

Conversation was impossible for a long time.

Finally, as I polished off the last peanut butter cup (hey, she insisted(!), Emma unfolded a plastic trash bag and shook it open. I watched as she collected the empty potato chip bags, candy and snack cake wrappers, and iced tea bottles. Tying a knot in the bag, she stuffed it (with difficulty), into her backpack for later disposal.

Such an organized, thoughtful, tidy girl.

At last, turning in my direction and with a puzzled expression on her face, she asked, “Now, where were we?”

“Well,” I began, “as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted-” 

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

“By the way, what do I owe you for the snacks?” I asked, shoving my hand into the right front pocket of my jeans.

“A polite thank you will suffice,” she answered...

...and, with an understanding nod, I leaned toward her.

Once I'd finished expressing my appreciation, she observed, “Well, it seems you're feeling a little better than yesterday.”

“Yes,” I said decisively, “very!”

Emma's eyes lit up.

“I'm so glad!” she exclaimed, reaching out with both hands and pulling me forward. 

With a smile, she dipped me low and, ignoring my squeal of surprise, gave me a hearty kiss. Before I could recover from that, she actually picked me up off my feet and hugged me tightly, declaring, “I've missed you, Alyssa! I've been thinking about you all day!”

“R-really?”

“In-deed I did!” she said earnestly

Once my feet were back on the floor, I looked at her wide smile and quickly assessed the situation.

And my heart began to pound.

I had been planning to take my time and play all of this by ear, trying to find the right moment to talk to her about my morning's epiphany but, based on her current mood, this seemed to be as good a moment as any-no, even better! 

“Okay,” I told myself, “you know that, even though you're not sure where this idea came from, it's absolutely inspired. Why wouldn't she like it?”

I took a deep breath, yet still hesitated. 

“Come on, say it...NOW!” I ordered myself silently and then, not allowing myself the chance to screw up by second-guessing, I instead screwed up my courage, took another deep breath and asked, “Emma, would you please do something for me?”

Without hesitation, she replied, “I'll try...what is it?”

Looking slightly past her (I was waaay too nervous to make direct eye contact), and with my heart now hammering, I asked, “Could we, uh...could we lie down together for a few minutes?”

Looking to her left, Emma glanced down at the floor next to our feet. 

I shook my head.

“No, that's not what I meant. I m-meant over th-there,” I said, pointing to my left...

...over at the wooden storage bin. 

And then I closed my mouth and, trying to ignore how badly I was shaking, awaited her answer. 

During the silence that ensued, I studied her face closely. I wasn't sure what she was thinking but, based on her expression, she seemed to be trying to decide if there was any good reason not to.

Finally, after nearly a half minute's deliberation, and to my absolute relief, she nodded.

The two of us approached the bin tentatively and looked down at it. I couldn't tell what she was thinking, but she wasn't moving, so I promptly climbed up and over its nearly four-foot high front wall and then lay on my back, sinking far down inside.

While not exactly roomy, it wasn't uncomfortable at all – with no hard spots - and I stretched out my full length with satisfaction.

I expected the green canvas tarp to be musty, but instead it smelled like the bin's cedar walls, (which had probably been a deliberate choice of wood to deter moths from devouring the wool band uniforms).

I smiled encouragingly up at Emma and, after a moment or two's hesitation, she climbed up, over, and in, and tried to lie down on top of me.

Due to space limitations, however, this was somewhat challenging. The bin, while certainly long enough, was fairly narrow, and she struggled a bit trying to settle in, before finally hitting on a solution. A moment later, I felt her palm slide sideways between my knees. Knowing what she meant, I nodded and then, with a nervous flutter in my stomach, I opened my legs.

Emma, with some difficulty, maneuvered her left knee between both of my own and then wedged her right one between my left knee and the bin's front wall.

Looking up at her, balanced above me on her knees and hands, I asked, “Will you keep an eye on the time?”

“I promise.”

Knowing that Emma is never late for anything, I considered the matter settled and turned my attention to the next order of business. 

Leaning up, I tilted my head forward and kissed her.

As she tentatively kissed me back, I distinctly felt a tiny shiver ripple through her body.

Excellent.

With a smile, I held out my arms, and then felt an incredible thrill run through my own body as Emma lay down on top of me.

As I pulled her close, she nodded (or maybe she was rubbing her cheek against mine(?); anyway, encouraged, I turned my face toward hers and kissed her again.

And then again.

As I was moving in for the next one, she suddenly tilted her face downward, so I kissed her forehead instead, and then, reaching up, I moved her head down to rest on my upper chest, just below my chin.

And then, I looked down at Emma (finally(!) lying in my arms, and my stomach gave an incredible swoop.

Did I really manage to do this...and all by myself?

Realizing that, yes, I did, I allowed myself a short interval to celebrate/reflect. It's difficult to explain how being with Emma like this made me feel. I mean, when your father leaves without a word and your mother, who hasn't hugged you in forever, is nothing but critical of everything you say/do/are, you are absolutely starved for affection. And then when you finally meet someone who accepts you exactly as you are, you want and need to be reassured that...

...that...

Suddenly, I realized something: I was so busy thinking about myself that I was ignoring Emma completely.

How unbelievably selfish of me.

At that moment, something else occurred to me. During the entire time my attention had been turned almost completely inward, she hadn't moved at all. 

I looked down at her, lying completely still, and kissed the top of her head.

She didn't respond.

“Are you asleep?” I asked softly.

She shook her head.

Nearly a minute passed, but she still didn't move, so I lifted her face to mine and kissed her.

She did kiss me back, followed by a weak smile. Smiling back, I ran my hands gently up and down her upper arms, silently encouraging her, letting her know that it's okay to show affection.

But she didn't.

Instead, without a word, she lay back down on my upper chest. 

Tilting my head forward, I looked down at her lying in my arms, but I couldn't see her face.

“Emma?”

No answer.

“Is this okay?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Are...are you okay?” 

I felt her body tremble slightly and then saw another tiny nod.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod.

“What are you thinking?”

She hesitated for a long moment and then shook her head...

...and I began to worry. This is not like her at all. Emma has always been a very enthusiastic participant in our hugs-and-kisses sessions.

And now...nothing?

What's going on?

I pondered this question at length, but no answer presented itself, and suddenly I started to, well, not panic, but to feel apprehensive. 

“No, Alyssa,” I silently admonished myself, “do not start imagining problems where none might exist!” 

But, still, something about this situation seemed “off”, especially considering the incredibly affectionate way she'd been acting toward me less than ten minutes ago.

Did her lack of participation mean that she was scared? 

But...scared of what?

My inability to understand what was going on was quite unnerving and so, against my better judgment - and while trying to keep the growing dread I now felt out of my voice - I asked, “Please Emma...what are you thinking?”

Several long seconds of silence followed, and then she answered, in a very small voice, “Th-that I love you.”

Feeling equally surprised and relieved, I hugged her tightly.

She had never said it before. 

To be honest, I wasn't expecting to hear it at this particular moment. I mean, the sentiment certainly wasn't unwelcome, it's just that...well, this is not exactly what I thought our first “I love yous” would be like. 

Instead, I had kind of envisioned a wind-swept beach, on a morning in early September, when the sun's rays hit the earth at a lower angle and the quality of the light is absolutely beautiful. With her bare feet in the surf and the sun in her hair, Emma would turn to me and...

...or...

...or maybe while standing on a jetty, in early April, far out over the sea, with waves spraying their mist upwards around us, as we held onto each other tightly, bracing ourselves against the wind and steadying ourselves on the wet rocks. Emma, with the collar of her long, gray overcoat flipped up against the brisk morning breeze, would look into my eyes and...

...and....

...and...

...and, anyway, this venue is an acceptable substitute! Emma just told me she loves me!

Since her declaration at this moment was so unexpected, the best response I could come up with on such short notice was, “Well that's good, Emma, because I love you, too.”

Reaching down, I lifted her face to mine. As I kissed her, there was a series of major swoops in my stomach, and I wondered if she felt the same, hoping that she did. However, nearly a minute later, I opened my eyes and gazed into hers...and my kisses slowed...

...because something about her earlier expression had changed but, try as I might, I couldn't figure out exactly what. “Then again,” I reasoned silently, “you might be imagining this,” and so, instead of asking her about it, I tilted my head forward and began kissing her again.

Since she was returning them, I parted my lips, but soon found, to my confusion, that she wasn't opening her mouth against mine. Nonetheless, I continued, as gently and encouragingly as I could, but suddenly - and without a word - she lay back down, resting her head once again on top of my chest.

“Still,” I told myself, “you might be misreading the entire situation, so just relax.” Reaching up with my left hand, I tangled my fingers in her hair and then spent the next minute or two memorizing everything about this moment, so I could accurately reference it again tonight when I was in bed.

In bed all alone.

Reaching down with my right hand, I began to caress her back, on top of her shirt; but, even after several minutes of this I saw, to my disappointment, that she still wasn't responding at all.

“Does that feel nice?” I whispered.

She nodded, which should have reassured me...

...but why wasn't she hugging me back? Well, then again, because of our position and how narrow the bin is, she couldn't really have got her arms around me, so was I actually overthinking all of this?

But then again, if that's the case, then why wasn't she at least talking to me? Instead of lying completely still and silent? She's always been very, very animated and affectionate with me...and now nothing?

Suddenly, I desperately needed to know what was going on because, clearly, something was...well, different. But what could I possibly say: “Emma, your contributions to this love fest are not to my satisfaction?” 

Of course I couldn't. 

I wracked my brain for an alternative, but couldn't come up with something that didn't sound like criticism...and I did NOT want to ruin the moment; knowing that if I did she might never want to do this again.

Still, something about all of this seemed very, very off. I valiantly tried to push that thought from my mind, but it wouldn't leave; and so I lay there beneath her, struggling with myself in silence; desperately wanting to understand what was going on, but afraid of coming across as pushy and intrusive by asking.

Finally, however, the the right side of my brain won out and, now actually scared that something was very wrong, I was about to beg, “Emma, please! Please talk to me!” but before I could, she finally spoke. 

“We, uh, we have to go,” she announced...

...and, struggling to hide my fear/disappointment, I nodded and, tilting my face downward, I kissed her forehead.

Without a word, she clambered out of the bin.

When I joined Emma on the other side of the room, I tried to look into her eyes, but she was looking at her backpack, holding it in one hand while wrestling with its front zipper with the other. Without a word, she reached inside and then pressed two additional Chocolate Scrunch bars into my hand.

She did participate in our obligatory last kiss but, based on her lack of eye contact, her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Even though we never bothered telling each other to enjoy rest of the day (since we were well aware that it would be sheer hell for both of us), we did always talk to each other before leaving the band closet, but this time she didn't say a word. 

At this point I was rapidly approaching panic, but had no idea what to say, so instead I watched in silence as she walked out of the room and down the hallway, like always, but to my dismay, far more quickly than she ever had before.

And suddenly, I felt the desperate necessity to be somewhere - anywhere – else, where I could sit in solitude and try to decipher what had just happened.

What she'd been thinking.

And feeling.

But no such luck. I had to get to Phys. Ed (where it's far too noisy to reflect), then Algebra (where you let your attention wander at your peril), followed by Science, followed by cheer practice.

So I did my best to not think about it at all, although without much success.

The rest of the school day passed with excruciating slowness, while I struggled – and failed – to keep Emma off my mind. Unfortunately, despite my endless snatches of unwanted reflection, I made absolutely no progress in sorting things out.

During the ride home, I did my best to ignore the roar of the school bus's ancient muffler, instead turning my attention inward and silently attempting to strategize:

“Okay, Alyssa, here we go. Your main objective is to figure all this out...and as soon as possible! When you get home, if Mom's not there, start thinking about it, then endure dinner, then beg off to study, and then continue tying to figure it out.

“If she is home, endure dinner, beg off to study, then start trying to figure it out. Don't complicate/drag things out by arguing with Mom about anything she says...no matter what it is. Eat quickly, then beg off...and then figure it out!!!”

I reviewed my strategy several times. 

It was satisfactory.

A few minutes later, I was walking home from the bus stop; and, turning the corner onto our street, was annoyed to see Mom's car parked outside our house. Still, the day's end was now in sight, and I gratefully/wearily ascended my front steps, just wanting to get through dinner and then up to my bedroom.

So I could finally think!

But, of course, first things first: Mom was waiting for me as I walked in the front door. 

I expected her to launch into a lengthy tirade about some glaring fault or other of mine, as usual, but instead, and to my complete surprise, she said, “Alyssa, run upstairs and put a clean shirt on. We're going out for dinner.”

“Huh?” I replied, stunned. “Where did you make reservations?”

Mom shook her head. “We're not having dinner at a restaurant. We're going to the Roger Flynn's house. You remember the Flynns?” 

My heart sank.

Of course I remembered them. 

Roger Flynn was a real estate colleague of Mom's, although they didn't work directly together (he specialized in commercial real estate; she in residential). I'd had dinner at his home on several occasions, and every single time I'd been bored to death. He and Mom would discuss business endlessly (a subject in which I had zero interest), leaving me with the responsibility of entertaining his wife, Jane, who seemed to think she was my personal lifestyle director and gave extensive, unsolicited advice while pelting me with endless personal questions. 

We usually didn't leave there until hours later...even on a school night!

Crap!!!

Mom snapped me out of my reflection. 

“Are you going to stand there all day?” she asked. “Roger wants me to be his partner in a commercial project, that new healthcare plaza and it's a very big and potentially-lucrative deal. We have to be there in twenty minutes, so get moving!”

Seven minutes later, during the (thankfully) silent car ride to their place, I forced myself to do some fast thinking. My original plans were officially shot to hell, and now I had to contend with the added complication of being at some else's home, where I might be trapped for most of the night...and I could not allow that to happen! I had to get into my bedroom and try to figure out what the hell was going on with Emma! My inability to reflect on it properly thus far was starting to take its toll; and my head was spinning as I tried to rationally assess my current options.

After studying the situation at length, there seemed to be only one: 

“Okay,” I told myself, “eventually, Mrs. Flynn is going to ask you how school is going. When she does, tell her how stressed you are about your huge, upcoming History test and how it's worth 25% of the semester's grade, and how much more you want/need to study for it. Say this just loudly enough to cut across whatever Mom and Mr. Flynn are discussing. As soon as Mom hears that, she'll start wrapping things up and hurrying you out the door and into the car.”

I reviewed this strategy several times, looking for potential points of failure, but it seemed very solid, and so I committed to it.

When we arrived, the appetizer was already on the table, which I took to be an encouraging sign. A large platter of chilled lobster tail medallions (the Flynns are loaded), with a Dijon mustard-based cream sauce.

Yum.

Within two minutes, Mom and Mr. Flynn were deep in discussion about the new complex and twenty minutes later, when he officially invited her to to partner with him on the project, she agreed enthusiastically. There were, however, some items that needed to be sorted out, and while they grappled with these, I turned my attention to my entree, eating without interruption, grateful that Mrs. Flynn seemed to be waiting until after the meal to engage me in (not so) small talk.

I smirked openly when dessert hit the table: four plates, each with a huge wedge of chocolate pie on it. 

Despite my current mental turmoil, it was incredibly entertaining to watch Mom's internal struggle; wanting to forbid me to have mine, yet not wanting to offend our hosts. Finally, after an extended silent battle, she relented with a curt, grudgingly-permissive nod, and then returned to her discussion with Mr. Flynn.

As soon as dessert was over and the table had been cleared, I prepared to make my move, although unsure when Mrs. Flynn would provide the catalyst.

As it turns out, I didn't have long to wait.

“So, tell me, Alyssa, how are things at school?” she asked promptly.

Taking a deep breath, I pitched right in. “Well, actually I'm kind of-”

“Oh, Roger, if we can finalize this deal...!” Mom cut me off.

“I'm pretty sure we can,” he replied with a smile. “We just need to have the variance approved, and then to settle things with Code Enforcement.”

“It would be wonderful!” Mom continued. “This commission will help so much! Alyssa starts college in September, and I want her to have the very best education, well, the very best of everything in life, or else I'll feel like I failed her,” she concluded, with unmistakable sincerity...

...and with a tiny catch in her voice...

...and with a long, doting glance in my direction...

...and my heart sank...

...and my gaze dropped to the tablecloth, as I was forced to confront/acknowledge the truth: 

She's doing this for me. 

All of it.

Not for personal gain, nor for recognition, but for me. 

Mom works so hard and has made so many sacrifices on my behalf, I realized...

...and then promptly buckled under the crushing weight of guilt.

There was no way I could pull the plug on this meeting now, not because I would benefit from it financially, but because (despite all of our problems), I mean so much to Mom.

And so, with weary resignation and while mentally bracing myself for a loooong night ahead, I turned back to face Mrs. Flynn who eagerly asked, “So, Alyssa, do you have a boyfriend?”

At 9:43 (actually earlier than I'd expected), we walked through our front door. 

Immediately I said, “Huge history test in two weeks; gotta study!” and tore up the stairs to my room.

Fortunately, Mom didn't protest. 

Unfortunately, however, it had been such a long, difficult day that, by the time I closed the bedroom door behind me, my last gay nerve was completely shot; and so, instead of first calmly reflecting/thinking/planning what to say to Emma I, now in full panic mode, snatched my phone and hastily dialed her number.

She didn't answer.

Oh, my God...why not?

“Stop, it, Alyssa!” I admonished (as loudly as I dared). “Get a hold of yourself! Calm down, and let's do this the right way: First, list every single facet of the situation, in chronological order. Next, evaluate each one carefully. From there, you can draw your best conclusions and then decide on the most logical course of action!”

Taking a deep breath, I sat down on the edge of my bed and attempted to do all of that...

...and failed utterly. I was so physically and mentally drained from the day's events, and so confused/distressed about what had happened in the band closet, that my mind refused to cooperate, instead rapidly spewing out endless, jumbled, random thoughts:

Why hadn't she answered her phone? I mean, it's a school night, so she should be at hom-no, wait! She and her grandmom sometimes go out on school nights. 

But did they tonight?

Looking back to the moment we left the music room, I realized that, for once, she didn't tell me of her evening's plans like she always did.

In fact, it seemed like she couldn't wait to get out of there...and she had barely looked at me...and then she practically ran down the hall!

So, would she even show up tomorrow?

Another sobering thought occurred to me: why had I insisted that she tell me what she was thinking? I mentally kicked myself, realizing how incredibly intrusive it is to ask someone to reveal their private thoughts! Had I pushed her into admitting that she loves me...before she was ready to say it?

But still, she DID say it...but was she now second-guessing herself?

Have I scared her off?

Heart pounding, I called again.

Still no answer.

Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!

Why the hell was she so unresponsive in the bin...was she afraid of us getting busted? Okay, now that's a possibility. If someone walked in while we were standing, we could always say that Emma was looking for some sheet music to play on her guitar. 

But getting caught while lying down was another matter entirely; one that could completely ruin my life if we were found out.

And I Could Not Be Found Out!

It could ruin Emma's life, too, I suddenly realized. Did her paralyzing fear of that possibility make her decide to pull the plug on the band room? 

And on us?? 

Forever???

Now a wreck, I jumped up off my bed and started to pace the room.

During my thirtieth(?) trip across it, another awful realization hit me: she hadn't said, “See you tomorrow,” which she always tells me when we're leaving.

Every. Single. Time.

Oh, shit!!!

Struggling to breathe evenly, I forced myself to stand still and then tried to apply logic, like I'd learned in my classes, but every single facet of the entire situation was infuriatingly ambiguous, and no amount of tortured analysis yielded a single insight.

I thought back to her telling me she loves me. Did she only say it because she believes I expected it of her? 

Did she now regret it? 

Why did she hesitate before telling me? Maybe because she's unsure of it?

I turned and looked at my bedside clock. If I didn't call her in the next ten minutes, I would miss my chance, due to curfew. 

I was completely terrified, but I had to know; and so, doing my best to ignore the fact that I still had absolutely no idea what to say, I dialed her number one last time.

She didn't pick up.

At this point, I was so distressed that, for the first time ever, I skipped my evening shower. Kicking my shoes off, I crawled, fully-dressed, under the covers and switched off my bedside lamp.

Rolling over onto my left side, I reached out and grabbed Emmapillow, pulling it to me as tightly as I could and resting my forehead against it. 

“Please,” I whispered to it. “Please, Emma. Please, tell me what's happened!” 

No reply.

“Please!” I begged.

But she didn't answer. 

Just like she didn't answer her phone.

XXXXX

Needless to say, I got zero sleep that night. 

I somehow managed to make it through my morning classes solely on autopilot, well, that and due to the fact that (for a change) my teachers didn't call on me. I couldn't have paid attention if I'd tried, because my sleep-starved mind held only one thought: that I was terrified to walk into the band closet.

Because of the very real possibility that she wouldn't show up.

Third period Study Hall was a blur, although I vaguely remember struggling to stay awake. Forty-five minutes later, I stumbled out the door, groggy and blissfully unaware that my dragging feet, also on autopilot, were steering me down the hall and into the second floor's west wing.

But suddenly, I was jolted violently awake, as I realized that I was standing in front of the band closet. 

The shock felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head, and I wanted to turn and run. But, as terrified as I was, I knew that I had only option. 

With my heart slamming violently against my rib cage, I approached the door and then, with a badly-shaking hand, reached for the knob...

A/N: Well, shall I continue?


	2. CHAPTER 2

Praying fervently that Emma was standing on the other side of the door, I grabbed the knob...

...but I couldn't bring myself to turn it.

At least two agonizing minutes passed; then my internal battle was interrupted abruptly by the sound of footsteps in the adjacent hall; and, based on their steadily-increasing volume, they seemed to be approaching rapidly.

Two sets of footsteps.

Seconds later, the sound was accentuated by the voices of two adults, teachers probably, who were talking to each other.

And then, I clearly recognized one of the voices...

...and realized, to my horror, that it belonged to The Very Last Person who I wanted to find me standing in this hallway...where she knew for a fact that I had no classes!

And, at that moment, it became crystal clear that, no matter how terrified I felt, I no longer had any choice. 

Seconds before they turned the corner and caught me, I turned the knob and yanked; and then, with my head spinning and my heart pounding, I ran inside the band closet, shutting the door behind me...

...and my terror instantly turned to devastation.

Emma wasn't there. 

Frantically my eyes swept the room, both left and right, but there was absolutely no sign of her.

Oh, God.

Oh, God...no.

She didn't come back!

And I was fully aware that, because of what happened yesterday, it's entirely my fault. 

For the past year and a half, she's never missed meeting me here.

Never.

And I know that, Emma being Emma, she absolutely would have called me if she couldn't make it...for any reason!

Tears began to well up in my eyes as I, utterly heartbroken, was forced to face facts: 

She didn't even leave me a note.

Because she had nothing more to say to me.

She didn't come back.

And she wasn't going to.

What hurt the most, however, is that I'm not even sure what I did that was so bad. I just wanted to lie with her in my arms, holding her close to me, and now she's so upset about what happened, that she didn't even-

I couldn't finish the thought. 

What I did know for sure was that her absence spoke volumes.

And every one of them was filled with a single, solitary message: she didn't want to see me anymore.

And now, I was going to have to find a way to deal with the crushing loss of the only positive thing in my life.

And, now struggling (and failing) not to cry, I knew it was time for me to leave this room...for the very last time.

Alone.

With a sob, I turned in the direction of the door.

As I did, I thought I saw, through my blur of tears, a flash of red and blue.

Coming to an abrupt halt, I looked over to my left again...

...at nothing...

...and then to my right again...

...at nothing...

...and realized that it was just my broken heart imagining what it wanted to see.

Steeling myself to leave, I turned again in the direction of the door...

...when, suddenly, just above the cedar storage bin's top edge, a familiar plaid sleeve appeared, with the hand at its end beckoning me.

Shock riveting me to the spot, I nonetheless managed to stand on my tiptoes, and craned my neck...

...and there was Emma...

...lying in our bin!

As I stared in disbelief, she managed a nervous smile...

...and held out her shaking arms.

I tore across the room.

“Door, Alyssa!”

“Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-s-so sorry!” I exclaimed, hurriedly retracing my steps. I locked the door, gave it a few hard shoves to make sure it was secure, and then rushed back across the room and started to climb into the bin.

“Backpack, Alyssa!”

Immediately I began wrestling my way out of it, not caring that my jacket came off at the same time. Flinging both at the wall, I then practically flung myself into the bin. 

Once inside however, I hesitated, because I couldn't figure out how the two of us had managed to fit together yesterday. A moment later I remembered and, reaching downward, I slid my hand sideways between Emma's knees.

Without hesitation, she opened her legs as far as the bin's narrow width would permit, just enough to allow me to get my left knee between both of hers. Next, I maneuvered my right knee into the space between her left one and the bin's front wall wall, balancing myself above her.

A moment later, I tried to lower my body onto hers, but suddenly felt her palm against my chest.

Puzzled, I looked down to see her staring up at me, more than a little concerned.

“Alyssa, what's wrong?”

At that moment, I realized what a mess I was. Blinking back tears, and while trying my hardest to assume a more neutral facial expression, I shook my head.

“Please, tell me.”

“N-nothing,” I insisted, averting my gaze.

“Then why do you look so ups-” she began, but then followed my sight line, toward the door...and a second later it dawned on her. “Oh, my God, you couldn't you see me from where you were standing, could you?”

I shook my head. “N-not until you raised your hand and waved.”

Her face fell. “Alysa, I'm so sorry! Come here,” she said, reaching up and wrapping her arms around my back.

“I'm so sorry,” she repeated, pulling me down on top of her so forcefully that my face hit the patch of green tarp next to her head with an audible whump.

Hugging me so tightly that I couldn't move, she asked, “Did you think that...that I'd stand you up?”

“Rtmzunmfwypbvqxzkerh.”

“What?”

“Rtmzunmfwypbvqxzkerh!”

Realizing the problem, she let go of my back so I could raise my face from the tarp.

“I'm not upset, Emma,” I repeated.

She looked unconvinced. “Alyssa, you didn't answer my question. Did you think that-”

Overjoyed that she was there, I immediately cut off her apology. “I'm just so happy to see you!” I exclaimed, looking down into her eyes and giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

A moment later, she tilted her head forward and kissed me...

...and seconds later, with a sigh of profound relief, I fell down on top of her.

Neither of us spoke.

Finally she reached up and, caressing my shoulder, asked tentatively, “Are you sure we're okay now?” 

I answered her with a second kiss. 

Seconds later, my mind became very aware of something it had barely noticed since the moment I first saw her: that her outstretched arms were (and still are) shaking badly.

And so is the rest of her.

As she lay beneath me, trembling and now silent, I looked down at her face, only inches from my own.

She immediately averted her gaze. 

She obviously was nervous, but I had no idea why. While this was certainly a change from yesterday's inertia, it confirmed that something was still bothering her. 

Something serious.

Stretching out flat against her once more, I smiled and then kissed her again; feeling her body's tremors passing through my own as I tried my hardest to figure out what the problem might be. A few seconds later, an idea occurred to me.

After reflecting a bit on how to test my hypothesis, I chose the best option, and then said, “I wish that this bin was wider.”

“Me, too,” she agreed.

With a nod, I added, as casually as I could, “Is that because you're a little...claustrophobic?”

“No.”

Okay, scratch that idea. Still, she was talking to me and, encouraged by this, I tried to figure out something else to say that might put her more at ease.

Nothing immediately came to mind, but then I suddenly remembered the one, solitary, non-insane thought I'd had during last night's panic-fest in my bedroom.

I deliberated for a moment or two, then decided that mentioning it might, at the very least, give me a little insight into the situation. 

Tilting my head back, I looked down at her again and smiled. As she looked up at me, questioningly, I said, “Do you realize that we've been coming here every single school day, for the past year and half, and we've never been busted?”

“I know,” she replied. “Why do you ask?” 

Now came the tricky part. Deciding not to mention her obvious nervousness, I said, instead, “Well, uh, I was just wondering if you're ever concerned that someone's going to come in and catch-”

She shook her head, replying, “No,” so quickly and decisively that I promptly eliminated the possibility from my consideration. 

Okay...now what?

It occurred to me that a hug might help, but getting my arms around her in this narrow space was impossible; so instead, I reached up and tangled my right hand in her hair, letting my left hand come to rest politely on the outside of her right thigh. Laying my head next to hers, I leaned over and kissed her cheek while focusing on keeping my breathing slow, deep, and even; hoping that the sound of it would influence hers. 

I think it had a positive effect because, within a minute or two, her tremors subsided; and, encouraged by this, I decided to try a different approach: the power of suggestion. 

But, first things first: get her to relax as much as she could.

Now that my earlier adrenaline rush was wearing off, I was too exhausted to strategize the best way to go about this, and so I continued to operate at the default level: gently running my hand through her hair while giving her an occasional kiss on the cheek. I watched her closely, without being obvious about it and, after a minute or two, I definitely felt her breathing slow down somewhat, indicating that she was now relatively calm.

Okay. 

Time to proceed. 

Resting my palm against her cheek, I gently turned her face toward mine.

“Emma,” I whispered, “do you love us lying here together as much as I do?”

She hesitated for a moment. 

“It's nice,” she murmured with a little nod of her head, but shifted her gaze as she did.

Okay, now what? She seemed to be telling the truth, but not in a very enthusiastic manner. I guess it's because she's still nervous...but why?

Having no idea (and too physically and mentally drained at the moment to come up with one), I decided to retreat momentarily and try to sort things out; and so, after one more chaste kiss on her cheek, I voluntarily moved my head back down onto her upper chest...even though it definitely wasn't what I wanted to do.

Seconds later, however, I realized that this might not have been such a good idea, as she immediately wrapped both of her arms around my back, hugging me so tightly that I couldn't crawl back up and kiss her again.

And, believe me, I tried. 

After several failed attempts to disentangle myself and do so, I finally gave up and lay in her arms, reflecting that we were right back where we were yesterday. This is the same problem - okay, maybe not quite as distressing, I acknowledged - but we still have a problem. 

Unclear as to what my next move should be, I decided to lie here for a little while and see if I can figure things out.

Closing my eyes so I could better focus, I turned my full attention toward trying to determine why Emma's so scared, and to then strategiz-z-z-z-z...

“Alyssa?”

“Hmm?”

“It's time to get up.”

“Wh-wha-?” 

“You fell asleep,” she said...

...and my eyes snapped open.

“Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God-Oh-God-Oh-G-”

“It's okay,” she added quickly. “We're not going to be late or anything.”

Making a mental note to pummel myself later for passing out on her, I immediately/unsteadily raised myself up and clambered out of the bin...

...and almost fell, barely managing to grab onto the bin's front wall as my knees buckled. 

“Hey, be careful!” she advised, as I struggled to find my footing. 

As she climbed out, I (sort of) managed to plant my feet, but failed to clear my head even slightly.

A moment later, I felt her hands on my shoulders. As my unsteady gaze met hers, she asked, while looking deeply concerned, “Are you okay?”

I promptly decided not to share any details of last night's insanity with her, and instead offered the (honest) bare minimum: “It's just...did you ever have a night when you didn't sleep very well?” I asked.

She answered with an understanding nod.

Swaying on my feet like a Bowery wino, I took two clumsy steps in the direction of the door...and promptly stumbled.

She caught me just in time and, grabbing my shoulders again, propped me up against the wall.

Leaning her body up against mine (to prevent me from falling on my face), she took her hands off my shoulders, reached into her backpack, and grabbed a bottle of of root beer.

Twisting the cap off, she held the bottle out to me and said, “Here, let's get some caffeine into you.”

Unfortunately, I was so groggy from lack of sleep that I didn't even notice. All my utterly exhausted mind could comprehend was that right now I'd be positively thrilled to sack out anywhere...even on a filthy, freezing, rat-infested concrete floor.

When I didn't grab the bottle, she pressed it into my hand, which she then helped guide up to my mouth.

I somehow managed to take a few swigs without spilling any on my shirt. 

As I struggled to claw my way back to consciousness, Emma said, “Here, I'm putting an extra bottle of this in your backpack, along with the sandwich I got you for lunch. I hope that tavern ham and provolone on a sesame seed torpedo roll with mayo and lettuce is okay.”

I nodded and then, suddenly becoming just aware enough to comprehend how pathetic I was currently looking/acting, I raised the root beer to my mouth again and started chugging.

When I came up for air, my mind seemed slightly less foggy but was still nowhere near what could be described as awake or alert. 

“Are you sure you're going to be alright?” she asked...

...with genuine concern in her voice...

...and with so much affection in her eyes...

...while suddenly looking so irresistibly pretty...

...and so absolutely kissable...

...that I immediately leaned over and set my bottle down on the floor. 

Taking two steps forward, I took her into my arms.

With a smile, she pulled me into a close hug, and it felt so wonderful that, without thinking (which my addled mind was incapable of at the time), I exclaimed, “I love you, Emma; I love you so very, very much!”

I felt her squeeze me a little more tightly, but she made no reply.

While I felt more than a little disappointed at her silence, I did my best to hide it.

I have no recollection of my afternoon classes, but I do remember thanking God (repeatedly) that there was no cheer practice, because it meant that I could get home that much sooner and take a desperately-needed nap.

Several hours later, I suddenly became aware that I'd somehow managed to make it out of school/onto the bus/off the bus/down two blocks/around the corner/down half a block/up my front steps/into my house/up the staircase/down the hall/and was now standing in my bedroom; and, heaving an immense a sigh of relief, I kicked off my sneakers. A minute later, using my last synapses of consciousness, I lay out a notebook, pen, and textbook on the mattress, staging the bed area so if Mom walked in, it would look like I'd fallen asleep while studying, which in her mind is a lesser crime than 'wasting time' by taking an “indulgent” afternoon nap.

My short sleep/coma in the bin hadn't helped in the least, but fortunately this nap did (somewhat); and so, by the time Mom's pounding on my bedroom door awoke me, I was coherent enough that she probably wouldn't accuse me of being on drugs.

But, of course, she more than a few other things to say.

Seconds after my butt hit the dining room chair, she pitched right in.

“I picked up our dry cleaning today.”

I nodded.

“And,” she continued, “Mr. Grant said he had a hellish time getting that ink stain out of your beige sweater. You really need to be more careful, Alyssa; clothes are expensive!”

I nodded agreeably, hoping that would be the end of it; but she was just getting warmed up. 

“Also, we need to talk about your responsibilities around here...like watering the houseplants,” she continued.

Doing my best to keep my growing annoyance from creeping into my voice, I insisted, “I did water them.”

“Oh, I'm well aware that you did,” she retorted.

“Then, what's the problem?”

“The problem, Alyssa, is that you overdid it.” Pointing through the dining room's entrance and over to the far corner of the living room, she added, “Just look at how yellow my ferns are! Promise me that from now on you'll be more careful.”

“I promise,” I assured her.

A lovely interval of silence stretched out between us for two glorious minutes; but then, believe it or not, I'm the one who broke it.

“Mom, have you seen my notes for next week's debate? I thought I left them on my desk, but now I can't find them.”

“Oh, those notes?” she said dismissively. “Yes, I saw them...right before I put them through my paper shredder.”

“YOU WHAT?!?”

“I said I threw them away,” she repeated.

“I spent almost four hours on those! Wh-why would you do that?” 

“Because,” she replied, “they were not up to the standards I expect of you. You're going to need to write better, more convincing arguments than that; and so, as soon as dinner is over, I want you to go straight to your room and start all over again-don't shake your head at me! All right, since you're obviously questioning my decision, we're going to go over every single one of your “arguments” right now, point by point, while I explain to you, in language that even you should be able to understand, why blah-blah-blah...”

At that moment, I forced myself to shut her out completely, lest I, now way beyond enraged, said something I wouldn't be able to take back. Still, she continued to blather on, while I sat there, wishing fervently that this was one of our completely silent dinners; trying to divide my attention equally between my (delicious) pork loin roast with carrots and red bliss potatoes, and Emma, whose current behavior I can't figure out at all. 

Ten minutes later, Mom was still hard at it, blabbing non-stop while I struggled to hear myself think.

Oh, God, would she just shut up for a second?!?

Finally(!) I was sent to my room to study.

Angrily flinging myself onto the bed, I cracked open my history book, but promptly closed it again.

As much as I needed to get ready for the upcoming test, right now it was far more important to think about Emma.

Setting my book on the nightstand I, with effort, turned my attention from my mother's crazed rhetoric - and my gaze toward the ceiling - and tried to take an accurate inventory of the current situation.

Now that I'd had a nap and a substantial (okay, also nutritious) meal, I felt my wits were about me enough that I'd be able to apply logic in figuring this out. Determined to take my time and use only the left side of my brain (well, 99% of the time, anyway), I took a deep breath and then began. 

The first step: Defining the problem.

Okay. Emma's affectionate outside the bin, but within a minute or two of us getting in, something changes, and she seems to be some combination of nervous/scared/detached. This isn't due to her being claustrophobic or fearful of being busted, so...

Having articulated what I knew so far, which certainly wasn't much, I lay there without moving while making a deliberate effort to still my mind; wanting to let an answer come to me, rather than chasing one.

A few minutes later, I had an idea: she may be nervous due to the newness of the situation. I mean, Emma's obviously never had a girlfriend before, so lying down with me may be scary for her; and so...

...and so, maybe I can help put her at ease while we're in the bin by talking to her the entire time - about random subjects and in a nonchalant way – instead of trying to kiss her. That way, being in there won't seem like a big deal anymore; and, after a few days of laid-back, casual banter, she should be relaxed enough that I can slowly start to ease back into hugs and kisses without scaring her.

I reviewed this strategy carefully. While unsure (due to lack of information) if I was addressing the underlying cause correctly, it was the best I could come up with at the present time.

Having devised a feasible(?) plan I, relatively relieved, set the situation aside for the time being and willingly turned my attention to my studies. 

It was nearly midnight when I, now showered and dressed for bed, crawled under the covers. 

Reaching over, I switched off the lamp on my nightstand and immediately reached for Emmapillow.

Rolling onto my back, I took her into my arms and pulled her down onto my chest. Closing my eyes, I hugged her close to me and whispered, “Come here. Please don't be scared. I love you so much that I'd do anything for you.”

XXXXX

The next day, I walked eagerly toward the second floor's west wing; thinking that, after yesterday's march of terror, it felt so good to approach the band closet's door with confidence.

The instant I locked it, Emma flung her arms around me. 

Once I'd returned her warm hug, she leaned back and looked into my eyes, asking, “Did you sleep well?”

“Kind of.”

She looked confused. “Please elaborate?”

With a nod, I answered (truthfully), “Yes, I did; I mean, not enough, but yes. Four hours more would have been nice...but hopefully I'll catch up tonight.”

Looking relieved that I was at least somewhat rested, she smiled, then leaned forward and closed her eyes. As we kissed, she pulled me toward her, hugging me closely.

With a sigh, I closed my own eyes, reveling in how wonderful it all felt: the warmth of her body, the way her lips were moving against mine, and the incredible sensation of her chest smooshed up against my own.

Tightening my arms around her waist, I tilted my head to one side and murmured, “Oh, Emma, this feels so nice.”

With a nod of agreement, she reached up and took my face in her hands; and I felt my breath catch in my throat as she pressed her lips to mine again.

After nearly a minute, she parted them.

“Yes,” I whispered, moving my body against hers a little; politely(!) letting her know how much I enjoyed it. Seconds later, I was tilting my head back as her lips found my neck.

“Oh, Emma...”

“Bin?” she breathed suddenly.

I have never moved faster in my life.

As she pulled me down into her arms, I was relieved to notice that they weren't shaking like they did yesterday; but, still, I was eager to help tilt the situation toward a (hopefully) favorable outcome, in any way I could...

...and so, I promptly scooched forward and upward, then gently (but firmly) wedged my left hand under her right shoulder while curling my fingers around the top of it...securing my position before she could trap me back down on her chest in her usual, vice-like grip.

I don't think she realized what my pre-emptive maneuver was all about, because she leaned up and began kissing me, repeatedly, while tangling her fingers in my hair.

“Oh, Emma, this feels so nice!” I said again, kissing her in return, while hoping that she would be inspired enough to continue... 

...but then, as I looked down into her eyes, with what I hoped was my most adoring expression, I watched her own expression change - not once, but several times - and then, without a word, she stilled her hand and turned her head.

Aaaand we were right back to the same problem as before.

Still, I wasn't ready to throw in the towel for the day. “I love you so much!” I said in a soft, reassuring voice. “You do know that...don't you?”

Without turning to face me, she nodded silently. 

I can't put into words how much it hurt me not to hear her say it...but I can tell you I was so disappointed that, without thinking, I released my tight grip around her shoulder and tried to caress her cheek...

...and found, seconds later - and to my complete bewilderment – that she had moved me back down onto her chest, where I lay trapped in her arms again, listening to her somewhat shallow breathing and wondering what the hell I should say/do next.

Unfortunately I had no idea, and spent the rest of our time together lying there in unhappy silence. 

When I got home, I discovered, to my immense relief, that Mom was out for the evening. 

As I ate the dinner she'd left me (fettuccine/chicken/broccoli al fredo), I tried to put Emma from my mind, figuring that creating a little temporary distance between us might yield some insight.

After nearly two hours of homework, I decided to call it quits and headed for the shower. Once in bed, I deliberately turned my attention back to Emma...

...and promptly began to berate myself. 

Damn it! I completely forgot my planned strategy for the day! If only I'd focused on talking to her inside the bin, instead of being so hell-bent on us kissing, maybe there would have been a better outcome!

But, then again, I reasoned, is it really my fault that I forgot? After all, Emma started kissing me almost immediately after I walked in the door; and, while we're on the subject, she's the one who suggested that we get into the bin; but then, once we were actually inside it-

God Damn It...what the hell is going on with her?!?

I tried to force myself to think more clearly, but after one additional (failed) attempt to figure things out, I gave up and tried to instead come up with a new, potential solution. Unfortunately, since I was flying blind, this was not an easy thing to do. Still, I persisted for almost an hour until, ready to quit in utter frustration, I suddenly had an idea: I decided to experiment tomorrow by kissing her outside the bin for longer than I normally do, and then to try something...a little different. 

XXXXX

As soon as I entered the band closet, Emma, smiling widely, was in my arms.

“Oof! I-I'm happy to s-see you, t-too!” I exclaimed shakily since she'd knocked the breath out of me.

Although eager to kiss her, I waited patiently for her to let go of me - for I don't know how long - but she still held on tightly, leaving me with no choice.

Tilting my head down and to the side, I pressed my lips against the left side of her neck and exhaled as hard as I could, noting with satisfaction how loudly the resulting fart noise echoed off the band closet's walls.

With a long/loud squeal/shriek, she unwrapped her arms from around me and then, to my surprise, quickly grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands. Before I could inquire why, she dragged my mouth over to hers.

Eventually forced to come up for air, she looked at me and then asked, somewhat breathlessly, “Don't you think that this is a much nicer use for lips?”

I answered her without words.

As I held her close, I noted (to my relief) that her kisses today were as enthusiastic as ever; and I made sure to return them with equal vigor. After a few minutes more, I was satisfied that she was sufficiently, er, warmed up; and, taking her by the hand, I led her over to the bin, making sure that, this time, I got in first.

I gave her a minute to get her knees positioned properly and then, leaning up, I promptly pulled her down on top of me, wrapping my left arm firmly around her waist, so her head was right next to mine; preventing her from scooching downward and resting it on my chest.

A moment later, she tried to do just that...

...but I held on with grim determination. 

A minute later, after a second, half-hearted attempt, she gave up and, seemingly resigned, remained where she was. 

I held her without moving, giving her a few minutes to get used to lying with me in this position. Eventually, I felt her body relax somewhat, which was my cue to take the next step. 

Turning my head, I kissed her cheek; and then, reaching up with my right hand, I began to caress her hair.

Neither of us spoke, but eventually I thought I felt her head nod slightly, which seemed to indicate that the time was right. 

I took a deep, steadying breath.

Slowly, I removed my hand from her hair...

...and, reaching downward and then over to the left, until my palm made contact with faded chambray, I began to very slowly and gently rub her back between her shoulder blades.

Aside from a tiny flinch of surprise, she made no response...

...which was good, I guess, as opposed to reacting with shrieks of protest.

Turning my head, I kissed her cheek again, and a moment later, felt it come to rest against mine.

A good sign.

Caressing it with my own, I then began to let my hand move across her upper back in slow, endless, random patterns, taking my time...

...and, since she didn't seem to mind, I began to let it wander a little, drifting lower - and then back upward – in a calm, loving way.

A minute or two later, I thought I felt her snuggle a little closer to me...and I realized that it was time for Phase Two.

Without being obvious about it (hopefully), I slowly moved my left arm lower and then tightened my grip again, holding her securely at the top of her hips... 

...and then, beginning just above my left arm, I resumed moving my right hand up and down her back...

...until the tail of her blue chambray shirt, which was already hanging outside of her jeans, slowly started riding up (while I prayed it wasn't obvious I was trying to make it do so). After a minute or two of strategic/skillful caressing, it was up near the middle of her back...which is exactly where I wanted it. 

No response.

Excellent.

And now, on to Phase Three.

I continued what I was doing and, shortly thereafter, the bottom edge of her T-shirt, which slid out of the back of her jeans with almost no effort, was also up and out of the way.

And then, finally, I stilled my hand...

...allowing it to rest on her bare lower back.

I distinctly felt her shiver.

Turning my head, I kissed her cheek again.

“Are you okay?”

She hesitated for a long moment and then, to my absolute relief, she nodded slightly.

Very slowly, I slid my hand up under her T-shirt, and then began to rub her back gently, while remaining on high alert for any changes in her breathing and body's response so, should the need arise, I could immediately make any necessary course corrections.

Unfortunately, she wasn't responding much at all. Still, I told myself, she's not complaining either, so just focus on being as gentle and loving as you can.

Neither of us spoke but eventually, after several minutes of complete silence, she said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Oh, Alyssa, I...I...” 

Her voice trailed off.

Having no idea what she meant, I replied, eloquently, “Huh?”

After a moment's hesitation, she added, “I...um, uh, your hair smells so nice. Is it from coconut shampoo and conditioner?”

“Yes,” I whispered, hoping that keeping my voice low would be calming to her.

Turning my head in her direction, I watched her face closely. She seemed to be struggling to say something.

Finally, in a very halting voice, she said, “Alyssa, I...I l-love-”

With a nod, I wrapped my left hand even more firmly around her hips.

“Go ahead,” I whispered, “it's okay to tell me.”

Seconds later, she bit her lip and lowered her gaze.

“I l-love...it, your hair, I mean,” she finished.

Struggling to hide my disappointment, I turned my gaze up to the ceiling; but a moment later an idea occurred to me, and, turning my head to the right again, I looked directly into her eyes.

In a low voice, and with my right hand still caressing her back, I whispered, “Emma, guess what I love?” 

In silence she looked back at me, definitely sad and seemingly confused.

I had no idea if this was due to fear - or maybe something else - but suddenly, I knew exactly how I felt: utterly discouraged and defeated. 

Over the past several days, I'd tried my absolute hardest to figure this out; and my repeated failure to do so now forced me to admit that I couldn't keep slamming my head against the wall. I desperately need some kind of concrete insight into what's going on with her. 

Right now.

With a silent sigh, I reluctantly stilled my right hand completely, and then removed it from under her shirts; bringing it to rest on top of them.

But, now...how to go about it?

No, Alyssa, I told myself firmly. No more attempting to strategize; you've done that endlessly - for nearly a week now - and it's gotten you absolutely nowhere. 

It's time to ask her directly.

I didn't even bother to review this (non)plan like I usually do, since I already knew it was the only one that might actually get me some sort of answer(s).

I took nearly a minute to collect my thoughts/steady myself...

...and then smiled at her warmly...

...and then I said, very, very gently, “Emma, is there something you'd like to talk to me about?”

And then, I waited for her response. 

It came less than ten seconds later.

Closing her eyes tightly, she threw her arms around my neck and, turning her head, buried her face in my hair. And, although she was obviously trying to control it, I felt her body shaking against mine.

Hugging her with my left hand, I shifted my right one upward and began rubbing between her shoulder blades again, as slowly and lovingly as I could; until, finally and to my relief, her body stilled somewhat.

“Are you okay?” I asked in a low voice.

Shrug.

I took a moment to steady myself; and then, turning my head, I looked into her eyes.

“Please?” I asked quietly.

She lowered her gaze, and then, after much hesitation – and instead of answering – she leaned forward and brought her mouth to mine again.

Any other time, I'd have been thrilled to feel her parting her lips against mine (especially in the bin), but I was well aware that, right now, she was trying to divert my attention (and probably her own) from the issue at hand. However, I didn't try to stop her from kissing me, which seemed like it would be rude, but I could tell that her heart definitely wasn't in it.

And so, less than a minute later, I did the right thing: I turned my head and kissed her cheek. 

“Honey, let's get out of the bin now,” I said softly.

Not looking at me, she nodded.

I released her from my arms.

As she climbed out, I struggled to get a look at her face, but it was turned, probably deliberately, away from me.

A moment later, I climbed out myself and then, grasping her hand, led her across the room, as far away from the bin as possible, and took her in my arms.

Immediately, she lowered her head onto my shoulder.

“Whatever it is, it's okay; I promise,” I whispered. 

No response.

Uncertain as to what to do/say next, I leaned back against the wall and looked upward; perhaps unconsciously seeking Divine guidance? A few seconds later, I was startled to feel her lips tentatively press against my neck; and the only thing I could think of to say in response was, “Would kisses help you feel a little better?”

I felt her nod and, hoping for the best, I pulled her closer to me.

Tilting my head over and downward, I caressed her cheek with my own.

“Alyssa,” she whispered, “I...I'm s-s-so-”

I heard the catch in her voice.

“Shh,” I told her. “You don't have to say anything right now if it's too hard for you.”

She nodded, and I felt her raise her cheek from my shoulder. She looked down at my lips and then up into my eyes, and, nodding, I leaned forward.

I gave her a very soft kiss and then leaned back and smiled at her.

Tilting her head down, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest; and seconds later, I felt her hands tentatively begin caressing my upper arms. 

With a nod, I wrapped my arms around her back; and, seconds later, I felt her lips on my neck again.

Leaning down as she raised her face to mine, my lips found hers. 

Her eyes were closed but, relieved that she seemed to be calming down a little, I pulled her into a hug and rubbed her back with my free hand, saying in a calm, low, reassuring voice, “See? Everything is okay now.” 

With a half-hearted nod, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against the front of my left shoulder.

Pulling her close, I rocked her a little from side to side; and then, without thinking, I whispered, “Emma, I love you...so much.”

I hadn't meant to say it. 

It wasn't the best time.

It was met by silence from her.

And it hurt not to hear it.

I was equally hurt because something awful is clearly going on...and I need to figure it out!

But how, when she won't talk to me?

Then again, I realized, she just attempted to...but I told her not to.

Unsure if that was incredibly stupid of me, I wearily decided to try (yet again) to figure things out later and turned my attention back to Emma, who was looking up at me, seemingly seeking another kiss.

With an obliging nod, I lowered my head.

Seconds later, she shifted her gaze to the floor, but I clearly saw how upset she still was; and so, reaching down, I took both of her hands in mine. 

“Come here,” I said softly, “I just want to hold you.” 

Leaning back against the wall, I pulled her to me and hugged her close, without moving, until it was time for us to leave.

The rest of the afternoon passed with boring familiarity...

...that is, until right after cheerleading practice. 

We had been dismissed, but Coach Wilson wanted to talk to Shelby and me (I forget about what; something stupid, no doubt). Finally, after listening to her incredibly long-winded - and probably pointless - rant, the two of us straggled into the locker room late, to find most of the other girls gone. The only person remaining was Kaylie who, now fully dressed, was sitting on the bench in front of our lockers and staring straight ahead, seemingly at nothing in particular.

“Hey, Kaylie,” I said, walking over to her with a smile, “are we still on for Monday?”

“Yes” she replied in a curt voice - and without looking at me - which I found to be unnerving.

I watched her in silence, for nearly a minute, but she didn't elaborate, nor did she turn her head in my direction. 

Fearful that I'd done and/or said something to upset her (which my mother insists that I do to many, many people on a very, very frequent basis), I reached down and lay my hand affectionately on her shoulder; but instead of acknowledging it in some way, she jumped up off the bench, snatched her duffel bag, and stormed out the door in a huff, just as Shelby returned from the bathroom.

“What's up with her?” I asked. 

“Detention,” Shelby replied, kicking off her sneakers.

“From who?”

In a high, windy, pretentious voice, Shelby replied, “Evelyn Kingsley Konger.”

And I felt my blood run cold.

Evelyn Kingsley Konger is a teacher who hails from Briarwood, a prestigious prep school located somewhere in Connecticut. How she ended up here at JMHS is a mystery (since she never discusses it with anyone); but, due to her educational pedigree, she seems to think that she has complete jurisdiction over the place - including over our entire faculty - many of whom don't even bother to hide their intense dislike of her. 

Condescending, arrogant, and highly opinionated, E.K.K. spends the majority of school hours (including a significant percentage of class time) patrolling the hallways; ever on the lookout for malingering teachers and marauding students. It's a known fact that she regularly submits detailed reports of her findings to Principal Hawkins; but it's not known what, if anything, he does with this unsolicited information. 

For the record, she's the person I heard in the corridor earlier this week, and the reason I rushed into the band closet: in a panicked attempt to avoid both a lengthy interrogation and the possible discovery of my secret love nest with Emma.

Turning my attention back to Shelby, I asked, “So...what happened?”

“Kaylie got busted texting under her desk.”

I frowned. “Really? That's never been a detention offense...not from any of the teachers.”

“Yes...but, well, you should see what she wrote,” Shelby replied.

“What?”

After a moment's hesitation, she said, “I guess it's best to start at the beginning of the story.”

I nodded.

“Well,” she continued, “do you remember the petition that Kaylie was bugging everyone to sign last week?”

“The stupid one that was supposed to be students agreeing with the PTA that the prom should be canceled?” I guessed.

“Yep, that's the one,” Shelby confirmed. 

“What a dumb idea!” I declared. “Who in their right mind would even want to sign it?”

Shelby nodded in agreement, and then asked, “So...do you have any idea which teacher put her up to it?”

Easy guess.

In my best high, windy, pretentious voice, I replied, “Well, honestly, even though I'm a complete know-it-all, I have absolutely no idea!”

Shelby laughed, and then continued, “Anyway, after hitting up everyone, Kaylie handed it in, with a total of four signatures on it.”

My eyebrows shot up. “I'm surprised she got that many.”

“Believe me, so was I; but it turns out all four of them are ass kissers who think that, because of E.K.K.'s connections, she can get them into the college of their choice. Anyway, she insisted the lack of results proved that Kaylie wasn't even trying; and for her to go do it again. So, now Kaylie's pissed, but she bugged everyone all over again and brought it back with two more signatures.”

I nodded. “Okay; and then, what happened?”

Shelby hesitated for a moment. “It would be easier to just let you see for yourself.”

Reaching into her locker, she pulled out her phone. After fiddling with it for a bit, she handed it to me, and I read the following string of text messages:

K: And then she actually had the nerve to call me lazy!

S: Then what happened?

K: She shoved it back into my hands and said, “When you bring this back, I expect this first page, at the very least, to be completely filled.”

S: And?

K: And so, the next day I brought it back...filled with signatures.

S: Wow! How did you manage that?

K: Check out some of the people who signed:

Ann R. Key

Dixie Normous

Phil A. Shio

Dee Jen Erret

Fonda Cox

Sal Monella

Hal Atosis

Anne Thrax

S: Wow, K, who knew you were so witty?!?

K: I was in study hall and bored.

S: Didn't she notice they were fake sigs?

K: No, she was just thrilled to get the list. Seriously, no many degrees she claims to have, I swear that stoooopid bitch King Konger has the IQ of celery! It's too bad her parents named her Evelyn and not Kathleen, because then she'd be K.K.K., an accurate description of-

{This was the end of the text.}

Handing the phone back to Shelby, I replied, “I'm guessing that's the moment she got busted?” 

“Yep. King Konger snatched her phone and said, 'Let's see what's kept you so enthralled during my class.'”

Setting her own phone down, Shelby started to get changed in the area between the bench and her locker; while I immediately turned and, swinging my legs over to the other side of the bench, sat facing in the opposite direction. I don't know about other schools, but in our locker room, no one ever looks at each other...for fear they'll be accused of being gay. I've never been allowed to go to a sleepover, so I have no idea what happens at those, but in the locker room, You Do Not Look at other girls when they're changing their clothes! Emma had once been utterly busted* while peeking at Andrea Kessler, and that's when people began to realize she's gay...and now, look what's happened! Anyway, I was NOT about to let the same thing happen to me!

*{Busted = caught by one person  
Totally Busted = caught by two people  
Utterly Busted = caught by three or more people}

And so I sat, deliberately staring at the well-worn gray linoleum floor tiles; but, thanks to peripheral vision, also clearly seeing each piece of Shelby's cheer squad uniform hit the section of bench directly next to my left hip:

Her v-neck top.

Her skirt.

Her trunks (high-waisted briefs).

Her sock.

Her other sock.

Moments later, I heard the rattle of a latch as she opened her locker; and then, from the corner of my eye, a flash of dark blue as she grabbed her jeans and shook out the folds.

She promptly dropped them onto the bench when her phone rang.

“Hi, Kevin?” she said, sounding genuinely glad to hear from him.

“No, we just finished for the day,” she continued. “So, how did it go?

“What?”

There was a long stretch of silence, and then Shelby shouted, “Whaddaya mean she gave you a D minus?!?

“How did that happen? I mean, you did read those two chapters last night, and then answer the practice questions like I told you to...didn't you?

“What do you mean 'not exactly'???

“Well, no wonder she gave you a D...a D for Dumbass!

“Don't Tell Me Not To Yell!!!

“You promised you were going to study!

“I was over there every evening this week, holding your hand, trying to help you get ready for-

“No, that's not the problem! The problem is that all you ever do is sit on your ass in front of the TV watching basketball and playing video ga-I don't care if it is Final Four Week!

“Yes, I'm well aware that your dad's going to hire you right out of school to work full-time in his landscaping business, but grades still matter!

Suddenly, she tapped my shoulder.

Raising my gaze from the floor, I turned to my left...

...and found my face in her cleavage.

Whoops!

Blushing profusely, I leaned back, removing my nose from between her breasts, and then lifted my gaze higher...

...just in time to see Shelby point at her phone with her free hand and then mime giving Kevin a vicious, back-handed smack in the face.

And then another.

And then another. 

I nodded, but wasn't sure if I was supposed to continue looking, so I resumed staring at the floor.

Seconds later, she tapped me on the shoulder again...prompting me (again) to look at her.

“Hang on a second,” she directed Kevin. 

Setting her phone on the bench, she then mimed grabbing his neck with both hands and throttling him violently.

A second later, she picked up her phone again. “Okay, I'm back. Oh, no, please explain this to me, in detail, Kevin...I'm all ears!”

I lowered my gaze to the floor again.

Seconds later, she tapped me on the shoulder again...prompting me (yet again) to look at her.

Now standing directly across from where I sat, Shelby leaned back against that row of lockers, pointing at her phone while shaking her head in exasperated disbelief...

...while I noticed, for the first time, what she was wearing: a deep-emerald-green satin bra and matching bikini panties. 

I'm not sure what Kevin was saying on the other end of the line, but suddenly Shelby shook her head again and, with an expression of complete disgust, turned and started pacing rapidly/furiously up and down the locker line, pivoting as she reached each end; passing me again and again, with her body only inches from my upturned face; while I sat, entranced, because the front and back views of her were equally mesmerizing to my uninitiated eyes. 

I mean, I'd seen a (very) few pics, but never the real thing on a real person standing in front of me.

As Kevin continued to babble some lame-assed defense, Shelby continued pacing up and down the locker line, stopping occasionally to mime shooting him, ripping his hair out, punching him in the face, stabbing him (repeatedly), yanking the pin out of a hand grenade with her teeth and then hurling it at the phone, and kneeing him in the crotch, all while yelling, “What the hell? What's wrong with you?? Do you want to spend another year - or more - at this school???”

Eventually Kevin reached the end of his narrative, and Shelby shouted, “That's right, at least another year - or maybe more - because I won't be here to help you! I'll be in college, with a full course load...while you keep failing again and again and-what? 

“Well, it's something that you need to think about, Mister! Call me back when you've come to your senses and are ready to-what? 

“No, I am not coming over tonight...did you not hear anything I just said-what? 

“I don't care that you'll let me pick the movie!

“Bye, Kevin! 

“I SAID GOODBYE!!!”

“What an idiot!” she shot in my direction. 

I nodded.

With a snort of disgust, she slapped her phone down on the bench and started to pull her jeans on.

As they slid up over her hips, blocking my view of her panties (yes, I was still looking), she said, still clearly annoyed, “Tracy's mom is picking her up and giving me a ride home. Do you want me to wait here with you until she comes?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I'd tell you to have a great weekend, but...” my voice trailed off. There was no need to elaborate; she already knew what a moron she was dating. 

I watched as she reached into the locker for her shirt and put it on, and then slid her feet back into her sneakers. Stuffing her belongings into her bag, she said, “Well, I hope that you do; because at least one of us should.”

Once she'd finished collecting her things, I said goodbye, but remained sitting where I was, watching as she walked out the door...

...and then, mind spinning, staring at the area of floor between my feet. I'm not sure how long I sat there, but suddenly I remembered that I had a ride to catch and, jumping up, changed my clothes hurriedly; then sprinted outside and over to where the last bus was, thankfully, still parked.

Dinner was on table when I got home, which is always a good sign, because it generally means that Mom has to go out for at least a couple of hours; and I celebrated (inwardly(!) when she confirmed this fact.

But, of course, we had to eat first. On tonight's menu: Chicken Florentine (lovingly made with fresh spinach(!); accompanied by a generous side serving of complaints:

1\. “This morning I drove past the bus stop and saw you standing there...and slouching! Posture is important...or don't you care if people refer to you as 'Alyssa Greene, The Human Question Mark'?”

2\. Hiding your Chocolate Scrunch bar wrappers in the outside trash can is no guarantee that I won't find them. Six, Alyssa? Seriously?!?”

3\. Stop letting Mrs. DeAngelo's dog Skippy kiss you...or any dog for that matter! Don't you know that their mouths are seething cauldrons of bacteria?!?”

4\. I saw the magazine you left on your desk...opened to an ad for tampons. Don't you dare get any ideas!”

As I sat in stony-faced silence, wondering where I could get the best deal on a .45 and a shovel, Mom suddenly glanced at her watch, then abruptly stopped speaking and got up from the table. After clearing it, she grabbed her handbag and hurried toward the front door. Opening it, she paused for a moment, then turned to me and said, “I'll probably be home very late; but make sure you study! Oh, and I have tomorrow off, so we're going to do a little painting.” 

I nodded.

Seconds later, she was gone...

...and, my faith in the existence of God now restored, I headed upstairs.

I was still recovering from that night of lost sleep so, even though I studied diligently for my upcoming test, I decided to call it quits after about ninety minutes and headed for the bathroom. 

Nearly an hour later, my hair still damp, I sat down on the edge of my bed and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.

10:07 pm. 

Hmm...still time for a fast call to Emma, I thought. With a smile, I picked up my phone but then, after a moment's consideration, set it down again. Before leaving the band closet, Emma had mentioned that she and her grandmom were going to K-mart this evening to buy a new toaster oven, and were then stopping somewhere for ice cream. She hadn't said what time they'd get home, but I realized that she'd probably be tired and decided to let her have an early night. 

Looking forward to doing some serious catching up on my own sleep, I climbed into bed, got settled under the covers, and stretched out on my back.

Since I was so tired, I was hoping to drift off right away; but when that didn't happen, I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling, deciding that the best use of my time would be to try (yet again) to figure out what was (still) going on with Emma. Whatever it is, I now really regretted telling her earlier that she didn't have to talk to me about it. Oh, well, what's done is done; you can't un-ring a bell. Anyway, I really hope she'll be willing to discuss it later, since none of my guesses thus far have been correct. I mean, she loves kissing/hugging me while we're standing up, but then she freezes up in the bin. 

Every single time.

But then again, I pondered, is it really necessary for us to kiss in the bin? I mean, it's not like I'm being totally deprived of kisses. However, after thinking it over for an indeterminate amount of time, I realized that, yes, I do want to, and it's really important to me. Lying in someone's arms is so much nicer when you can kiss them, too; especially when you get to spend so little time together. And, after all, it's a very reasonable request (it's not like I'm asking her for a kidney or anything). But why does Emma not respond? Why does she always seem so scared and/or detached? 

Why the hell can't I figure this out?!?

After reviewing the whole thing several times, I gave up – at least for the time being - and decided to turn my attention to something else...but what?

Before long, I had an answer: I made the deliberate decision to have my last thoughts of the day be pleasant ones (less chance of nightmares); and so I tried to come up with a few. After a minute or two, one occurred to me: how nice it is to actually have an intelligent girlfriend, instead of dating an idiot - like Kevin for example. Honestly, why Shelby puts up with his utter stupidity is way beyond me, especially since, with her looks, she could easily find at least a dozen other guys who'd jump at the chance to be her boyfriend. 

I spent the next several minutes thinking solely about Kevin; wondering whether he's stupid because he was born that way or because he neglects his studies? (Not that I really cared one way or the other; it just was thrilling to have a non-Alyssa-related problem to think about for a change...and so I did.) I kept turning the question over and over in my mind: Does he not study because he's stupid...or is he stupid because he doesn't study? After a few minutes of looking at the situation from both directions, I still had no idea; and so, in hopes of gaining some insight, I thought back to his phone conversation with Shelby in the locker room earlier today. Well, let's see...she said he wastes a lot of time on video games and televised sports, so he definitely neglects his studies...but he's also reminded on a daily basis by his teachers (and Shelby) that his grades suck, yet he does nothing about it...which certainly points to stupidity...so, is the correct answer that it's actually a 50/50 split? 

Poor Shelby, I mused. She gave up five evenings of her own time to help him get ready for the test, and he'd thrown all of that away.

No wonder she had been furious...or maybe livid would be a better description, I thought. Trying to decide which adjective was more accurate, I closed my eyes and attempted to picture the exact expression on her face earlier that day, as she'd paced up and down the locker line, over and over again, yelling frequently...

...which was accompanied by incredibly violent gesturing...

...while passing right in front of me, at least twenty times, giving my virgin eyes an advanced education on how amazing a girl can look in satin lingerie. 

Finally, I concluded that 'furious' and 'livid' were equally valid descriptions of her mental state.

Now giving up on the (seemingly-pointless) Kevin conundrum, I shook my head.

Oh, Shelby.

Your taste in men sucks.

But, to your credit, at least your taste in underwear doesn't. 

As for me – and as unbelievable as this may sound - I had no absolutely first-hand experience with nice underwear. There were no Victorian Secrets-type stores in or anywhere near Edgewater (they once tried to open one at our mall, but the idea was promptly shot down by our holier-than-thou City Council members). Also, whenever we received department store catalogs in the mail, Mom always intercepted them first and cut out/destroyed all of the ladies underwear pages (less temptation for Dad(?); more about that later). And, believe it or not, when we were out shopping, she never once took me into the Intimate Apparel section of any store.

So how did I acquire new underwear, you ask?

Well, as much as I hate to admit this, Mom would buy them frequently (without me telling her I needed any) and then leave them on my dresser for me to find when I got home from school...a generous supply...always white, without exception...and the most boring kind imaginable: 

The kind you wear when you're five.

Or seventy-five.

I thought again about Shelby's underwear, wishing that mine were more like hers.

What would it be like to own panties like that? 

That your mother didn't pick out for you? 

That you bought for yourself...in a wide variety of colors? 

Ones that hugged you so beautifully, like gift-wrapped second skin? 

This was all very new to me. I mean, I'd never stopped to consider any of it before; but seeing a girl, undressed, in front of you – at such close range and for so long - made you think, well, all sorts of surprising and unexpected thoughts.

Where did Shelby buy them? 

How many colors does she have? A lot, I'll bet.

Are they all bikinis or does she have other styles, too?

Does Kevin like them...or is he too stupid to appreciate them? 

I spent a minute or two reflecting on this new Kevin conundrum; and, as I did, another very unexpected question occurred to me.

I wonder what Emma's panties are like?

I pondered this at length.

Well, maybe they aren't as sexy as Shelby's; after all, Emma doesn't seem like the sort of girl who wears lingerie - so we can probably rule out lace, etc.; but, seriously, what style are they? What are they made of? How do they look on her?

And suddenly, I realized that I was incredibly curious about this, and that I really wanted to see them.

Badly.

I spent the next ten minutes or so trying to figure out what kind they are, but couldn't come up with a definitive answer, so I gave up and let my attention drift elsewhere: back to how amazing Shelby's backside (and front side) had looked while cantilevered in deep-green satin. 

What would it be like to wear panties like that?

That you know actually look good on you?

That you're not embarrassed for other people to see you in?

And how nice must they feel when you have them on?

What would it be like for someone to pull you close while you're wearing them...

...and then slide their hands down your slippery backside?

And not just anyone...but someone in particular?

Closing my eyes, I settled back into my pillow, trying to picture what that would be like:

Hmm...let's see. Emma and I just said goodbye to my mother...who then moved out of the tri-state area.

Forever. 

And now, there's absolutely no one else in the house.

Just Emma and me.

In this bedroom.

All alone.

As she walked across the room to where I was standing, I clearly saw the longing in her eyes, as she wante-no...needed to know what I was wearing under my clothes.

I felt my heart start to pound as she took me in her arms and kissed me. I heard the catch in her breath as I returned it.

Finally, her lips left mine.

“What color today?” she asked softly...

...but I shook my head.

“No, Emma.”

“Please tell me?”

“No.”

“Why won't you?” she asked, clearly sounding hurt.

“Because it's classified information,” I answered shortly.

Realizing that I was serious, her expression changed: from one of anticipation to one of deprivation. 

“P-please, Alyssa; please tell me!”

I shook my head. “No. You're not going to find out.”

“N-not today?”

“Maybe not ever,” I answered firmly.

Realizing that I was serious, her expression changed: from one of deprivation to one of desperation. 

Her fingers trembled as her hands took hold of the top of my shirt and she tried to unbutton it.

“No, Emma.”

Ignoring me completely, she continued to try...

...but I, with a glare of severe disapproval, reached up and swatted her hands away.

When she persisted, I grabbed both of her hands with my own, immobilizing them completely.

“Didn't I just tell you no?” I said sternly. 

“Please, Alyssa!” she begged, “I w-want to s-see...so badly!”

“No, Emma.”

“W-well, then, please t-tell me at least!”

“Absolutely not.”

(Barely) suppressing a sob, she wrapped her arms around me and, pulling me to her, tilted her head forward and began to kiss my neck.

While I appreciated this, I wasn't swayed in the least.

“Still no, Emma.”

“Please, Alyssa...PLEASE!!!” 

I shook my head.

Now sobbing openly, she moved her head lower and began kissing my upper chest fervently, just above where my shirt was buttoned, as her hands moved down onto my hips. 

I took a decisive step backward.

Realizing that I was serious, her expression changed a final time: from one of desperation to one of determination.

Moments later, she stopped sobbing...

...and then, she took a decisive step forward.

Reaching behind me with both arms, she placed her palms against my backside...

...and, holding on tightly, she pulled me toward her...

...and, as her left knee slid between my thighs...

...she looked into my eyes and stated, flatly, “Well, then, I'm not going to let you see mine either; and we both know how badly you want to...don't you, Alyssa?”

I didn't answer. 

“Don't you, Alyssa?” she repeated.

I averted my eyes.

“Don't you, Alyssa?” she persisted.

Instead of responding, I bit my lower lip.

“Don't you, Alyssa? she insisted...

...while decisively lifting her knee up between my legs.

All the way up.

And, as it pressed firmly up against me, her hands, now gripping my hips tightly, pushed downward...

...and, realizing what was about to happen, I began to struggle.

I soon understood the futility of this as her hands left my hips and she wrapped her arms around them, with a vice-like grip. 

Pushing her knee up as hard as she could, she pushed me down onto it as hard as she could, determined to force a confession out of me.

“Admit it, Alyssa!” she demanded...

...while ignoring my ragged breathing - interspersed with pleas for her to stop...

...until, nearly twenty minutes later, and while realizing that there was absolutely no other alternative...

...and with a sigh of utter defeat...

...I relented.

With a tearful nod, I lifted my eyes to hers, letting her see the longing in them. 

Slowly, she lowered her knee.

I put up no resistance as she moved my hands away from the front of my shirt.

Although looking at me sternly, as if silently daring me to (attempt to) stop her, she nonetheless unbuttoned it gently. 

Moments later, she slide it from my shoulders, and then off my body...and gasped softly.

“I-I didn't know you aren't wearing a bra,” she murmured.

She stared at me, in silence, for who knows how long...

...but eventually, her gaze left my bare chest and slowly drifted lower...

...and at that moment, a thrill of anticipation shot through me; because I knew exactly what was about to happen next...

...and how badly I wanted it to happen. 

As her palms once again made contact with my denim-covered backside, I shivered, wanting her to pull my jeans off me, yet wanting equally to continue to savor this incredible moment. Seconds later, I gasped as she pulled me forward, as far as possible, until our hips met; and, as we stood there in silence, I reveled in the feeling of the lower half of her body pressed so tightly against mine...with nothing between them except four flimsy pieces of cloth. Moments later, I tilted my head back, enthralled, as her lips found my neck.

Finally, she took a step back. 

Her hands moved around to the front of my hips and then, reaching down between us, her right one came to rest on the button of my jeans. 

Tilting her head, she looked deeply into my eyes...

...and not to seek permission.

Satisfied with what she saw in them, she nodded; yet, her hand continued to rest where it was until, just as I was about to lose my mind completely, she unbuttoned them.

“You know how much I love you,“ she whispered. “Come on; let me see.”

I didn't even try to protest anymore. 

I didn't want to. 

Seconds later, her right hand moved lower and took hold of my zipper; and then, as I watched and waited breathlessly, she slowly pulled it down.

“Put your arms around my neck,” she directed. 

I did as I was told, holding onto her tightly, and now trembling, as she pushed my jeans over my hips, and then down to my knees...

...and then, a thrill shot through my entire body as she knelt in front of me, saying, “Now, put your hands on my shoulders.”

I lifted first one foot, and then the other, and gasped softly as I felt my jeans slide down to my ankles, and then off me completely. 

Without looking, she flung them against the far wall.

And then, still kneeling, Emma stared, for the first time, at what was directly in front of her face. 

Oh, my God, Alyssa,” she breathed, “I didn't know they were-”

The sudden, sharp, violent contraction between my legs jolted me out of my reverie; and, gasping loudly, I opened my eyes.

What the hell was that?

Whatever it was, my hips had jerked up nearly a foot off the mattress!

For the next few minutes, I lay there, struggling to breathe; very frightened and more than a little confused. 

What was that? 

While kissing Emma in the past, I'd felt many a swooping sensation in my stomach, but this was different. 

Very different. 

Much stronger.

And much lower down.

And totally unexpected and unbelievably scary.

But as I lay there, my entire body shaking, I realized, without a doubt - and yet for reasons I absolutely couldn't explain - that I wanted to feel it again.

Badly.

And so I waited.

And waited.

But nothing happened.

And then, I realized that I was still confused, but now in a different way.

What exactly made the first one happen?

I wasn't sure, but there was one thing of which I was absolutely certain: that I needed to find out...so I could make it happen again!

With a yawn, yet determined to try again, I rolled over onto Emmapillow, turning her in a north/south position, and then stretched out, face-down, on top of her; trying my hardest to imagine the two of us lying here, with her body beneath mine and her arms around my back.

Okay...now what? Well, where did I leave off? Oh, yeah: Emma slowly undressed me, down to my panties, and then caressed me until my knees grew so weak that she had to lay me down on the be-no, wait! She was the one to lie down first, gently pulling me down on top of her and then taking me in her arms; wrapping them around my back as her hands began to caress me, while gradually moving lower and lower...

Eyes closed, I focused hard, wanting to accurately recreate the scenario of a few minutes ago so I could elaborate on it; and then, slowly, yet deliberately, I tilted my hips downward... 

...and then forward...

...and then downward...

...and then, I hesitated and, a moment later, came to a complete stop.

Grabbing onto Emmapillow tightly, I tilted my head downward and buried my face against her; feeling equally guilty and scared because, due to my religious upbringing, I was now aware that I was in the middle of doing something very, very wrong.

But it felt so incredible that I didn't want to stop. 

I couldn't have, even if I'd tried.

And, if there was one thing I was absolutely certain of in that moment, it was that I didn't want to try.

With effort, I turned my attention away from the shameful realization of my current thoughts/actions; and then, taking a deep breath, I focused hard again; picturing Emma putting her hands on my waist, and then pulling me down on top of her, and then reaching around my back and letting her hands glide up and down it.

I closed my eyes and, relieved that my body and mind were slowly and steadily turning back fully to my reverie, I deliberately gave myself permission to enjoy it. As my fear began to recede, my breathing gradually slowed...

...but then accelerated again as Emma's hands slid lower and lower, and then, after a moment's hesitation, moved slowly - yet decisively - onto to my backside. They stilled momentarily, and then began gently caressing, sliding endlessly over and across the entire expanse of my silk-covered-rear, drifting slowly downward, then upward, until, at last, I felt her fingers curl, slowly - yet very deliberately - around the waistband of my pan-

Without warning, my hips slammed forward and down into the mattress - so hard that it took my breath away.

Immediately, I opened my eyes; shocked, yet thrilled that I'd just had another violent contraction!

And, while it still was frightening, I realized that I wasn't nearly as scared as I was the first time.

Not nearly at all.

And then I realized, and allowed myself to admit, that I like the way it felt.

So much!

It felt amazing!

Suddenly, I became aware of something else: subtle, continuous tremors that were occurring between my legs.

I had absolutely no idea what arousal was about, or even that such a thing existed; but I did realize that, whatever was happening at the moment, I wanted to experience their full effect; and so, still breathing heavily, I placed my palms flat on the bed and, raising myself up, arched the upper half of my body back as far as I could, while pressing the front of my hips down against the mattress as hard as I could; reveling in the way the tremors, faint but definitely noticeable, felt until finally, and to my regret, they subsided completely. 

Oh, my God.

Oh.

My.

God.

Still unsure exactly what was happening, only certain that I desperately wanted (and needed) to feel another violent contraction between my legs again (and again), I turned my face away from my nightstand, ignoring my alarm clock's glowing insistence that the hour was late. 

Slowly and deliberately, I lowered the front of my upper body back down onto Emmapillow.

And then, in order to focus more clearly, I closed my eyes again.

I lay there, breathing heavily; and, less than a minute later, I swear that I felt Emma's body slide out from under mine. Standing next to the bed, she smiled down at me and, seconds later, I felt her hand slide under my left shoulder. 

Obediently, I turned over onto my back; and then felt the right side of the mattress shift downward slightly as she stretched out next to me, lying on her left side. 

“I love you so much, Alyssa,” she whispered.

“I love you back,” I whispered, near tears at hearing her say it.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Are you sure?”

Again, I nodded.

“Are...are you scared?” she asked, with genuine concern in her voice.

“Y-yes...but I s-still w-want y-you to,” I whispered.

And then, blinking back tears...

...and realizing that, for so many reasons, I had no other option...

...I lay back against the pillow and submitted. 

Seconds later, I nodded as I felt my right han-uh, I mean Emma's right hand begin to caress my cheek.

After nearly a minute, it stilled momentarily...

...and then began to drift slowly downward...

...over my shoulder...

...through the soft valley between my breasts...

...and then downward again, along the outside of my right hip....

...and then, reaching over to the left, I felt it, now trembling, come to rest directly on top of my thighz-z-z-z...

A/N: Leave a comment with what kind of undies you think Emma wears.


	3. CHAPTER 3

It was such a lovely dream...

...well, at least it started out that way:

Emma and I were in the master bedroom of our 59th Street Manhattan penthouse apartment; its three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of Central Park.

As I stood at one of these, looking down at the vast expanse of trees, now awash in a late-September riot of color, I sighed in contentment.

Seconds later, directly behind me, I heard another sigh; and, with difficulty, I turned away from the magnificent vista, and then toward the direction from which it came.

Mid-morning autumn sunlight flooded the entire room, spilling lavishly across our king-size bed, where Emma, barefoot, but otherwise fully dressed, sprawled lazily on top of the covers.

It was an absolutely glorious Saturday, thanks to the weather; but also because, for a change, we had the entire day to ourselves.

Crossing the room, I stopped at the foot of the bed and stood, looking down at her.

Her eyes were closed and her expression was one of absolute bliss as she basked in the wide swath of warmth. A moment later, she stretched out lazily in all directions, like a cat; and then, seeming to realize that she was being watched, opened her eyes and looked up at me questioningly.

With a smile, I said, “Guess what time it is?” 

After a moment's consideration, she asked, “Lunch time?”

“No,” I replied; “try again.”

“Brunch time?”

“Nope.”

“Uh...Chocolate Scrunch time?”

I shook my head. “Wrong agai-well, I mean, it's always Chocolate Scrunch time...but that's definitely not what I had in mind.”

At this, her eyes widened as her jaw dropped, and she shouted, “It's not? You're an...an imposter! Who are you, and what have you done with my Alyssa?!?”

While I found her remark amusing, I didn't give her the satisfaction of laughing. Instead, I shook my head and replied, “Keep guessing.”

“Awww, do I have t-”

I cut her off with a look.

“Come on, Alyssa! I'm running out of guesses!”

“Again,” I insisted.

With a look of exasperation, she threw her arms up and said, “I don't know, uh...uh...Christy the Christian time?”

Snatching the nearest pillow, I swatted her in the head.

Hard.

She yelped and then, grabbing it from my hands, flung it back in my direction...

...but I was too fast and ducked; and then laughed at her mockingly as it sailed over my shoulder.

And then, with a sigh, I realized that I was going to have to spell it out for her. 

Taking a step forward, I knelt on the foot of the bed. Crawling up to where she lay, I stopped next to her body; and then, while giving her a Very Pointed Look...

...I announced, “It's Emma-time!” 

“Oh,” she replied. “That's nice.”

“Wh-what?” I replied, stunned. “That's the response you're going with???”

“It's just-”

“Just what?” I demanded.

Looking distracted, she sat up, saying, “It's just that...uh...I just need to make a few phone calls firs-”

Immediately planting my right palm squarely in the center of her chest, I pushed her flat against the mattress, then leaned down and looked directly into her face.

“You're not going anywhere,” I informed her.

“But-”

“No, Emma.”

In protest, she stuck her lower lip way out.

“Okay,” I said,” I'm going to pretend I didn't see that...

“...or that either,” I added quickly, as she sat up again and made an obscene hand gesture.

Looking at her with my most serious expression I said, firmly, “Lie back down for me.”

She hesitated.

And so, I raised my eyebrows, freezing her with The Look...

...and she flung herself back down onto the pillow.

“That's right,” I said, nodding my approval. “Now, open your legs like a good girl.”

“Why?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I need a space to park my Bentley...why do you think?!?”

Instead of obeying, she shook head and mumbled something that sounded like 'maybe later'.

Unacceptable.

Reaching over, I took hold of both her knees and gently, but firmly, pushed her legs far apart. Moving over, I planted my left knee between both of hers.

“There, that's better,” I said with satisfaction. Looking down into her eyes, I added, “Now, do you know what you need to do next?”

Obediently, she reached up and wrapped her arms around my neck...

...and then, tilting her head forward and up, she kissed me.

Repeatedly.

Gently lowering her back down and lying on top of her, I returned them...

...repeatedly...

...until, from the unmistakable change in her breathing and the subtle way her body was moving under mine on the mattress, I knew what was beginning to happen.

And I welcomed it.

However, less than a minute later, I suddenly stopped kissing her...

...and rolled off her...

...then sat up and looked out the window, lost in thought.

She stared up at me, confused.

“What's wrong?” she asked. “I was having a good time...honest!”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“Then, why did you stop?”

I took a deep breath, and said, “Because there's something we need to discuss first.”

Turning back to look at her, I saw the apprehension in her eyes.

She knew exactly to what I was referring.

Reaching down, I took her hands in mine and slowly pulled her up into a seated position.

And then, in a very matter-of fact-tone, I said, “Come on, Emma; we need to talk...and you know why. I want you to tell- no! look at me when I'm talking to you. Now, isn't there something you want to say to me?”

Immediately, she lowered her eyes again; but, after a long interval of silence, she nodded sadly.

I waited.

Finally, she spoke. “I...I owe you an apology.”

I nodded.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up at me and continued, “I'm sorry I've been working sixteen hour days, every day, for the past-I guess what I mean is that I'm sorry to have been so busy this week-”

I knew it was childish of me, but I interjected, “and the week before that and the week before that, and the week before that...”

“Alyssa, I'm really sorry! I hate when I have to cancel our dinner plans-”

Rolling my eyes toward the ceiling, I added, “and our movie plans, and our theater plans, and our museum plans, and our shopping plans, and our beach plans, and our cruise plans, and our Grand Tour of Europe pl-”

At that moment, I caught myself and turned my gaze back to her.

She looked near tears...

...and I realized, to my dismay, exactly how out of line I'd just been. 

Reaching over, I caressed her cheek, saying, “Excuse me; that was uncalled for; and I apologize. But, still, you realize that this can't continue.”

She nodded.

“And when are you going to fix it?” I prompted.

“Immediately.”

I nodded. “That's right. Do you remember that verrrrry looooong discussion we had, Wednesday night, about you taking time off?”

“Yes.”

“And so, as we agreed, you're going to spend all of next week rearranging your schedule – permanently - like a good Emma?”

“Yes.”

“You have excellent assistants working for you.”

She nodded slowly. “I know.”

“So, then, only forty hours per week at your business from now on?” I concluded.

She stared at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “But...it's such a labor-intensive line of wor-”

“Emma!”

Silence.

“No more than forty hours?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she agreed with a sigh. “Forty hours.”

“No exceptions?”

She nodded.

“No, Emma; promise me.”

“No more than forty hours, ever again, I...promise,” she conceded unhappily.

I realized that the business she'd started meant a lot to her; but I also knew it was now successful enough that she could (and did) hire the best people to work for her. And now, she needed to learn how to delegate...and how to trust them. I also knew that, deep down, she didn't really want to be a workhorse; it's just the way she'd been raised.

In an effort to cheer her up, I added, “Come on, think of all the fun we'll have! There's that long list of restaurants you want to try; plus I know you're dying to visit the Cloisters.”

And then, with a sigh, she gave in completely. “Okay; no more working hundred hour weeks; I promise that next week will be the last one....and yes, I'm really looking forward to spending so much time with you; and I'll coordinate my work schedule with yours, every week, to make sure that we can.” 

And then, clearly unhappy, she lay back down. 

With a nod of approval at her promise, I leaned over and hugged her; but something still seemed a little...off, so I asked, “Emma, are you really looking forward to doing all of that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you still look so sad?

Shrug.

I decided to let it go for the moment, and said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes; aggressively negotiating your non-business needs; and I think you'll agree that we need to have a little chat about that as well...right now.”

She stared up at me, clearly apprehensive again.

“Come on,” I urged, “do you see how talking fixed that other issue? And how much better things in that area are going to be from now on?”

She nodded slowly.

“Well,” I continued, “we both know that there's also some unfinished personal business that we need to address...isn't there?”

“Want a sandwich?” she said sitting up suddenly.

With a glare from me, she immediately lay back down.

“You're only delaying the inevitable,” I said sternly. “Now, Emma, I want you to talk to me.”

Immediately, she turned her head.

“Come on,” I urged, “you said you weren't going to be evasive anymore. You know it makes me absolutely crazy.”

“I know,” she replied. “I'm sorry.”

“Well, then...?”

“I'm really sorry, Alyssa. I promise I'll try harder!”

She looked and sounded so upset as she said it that I took pity on her; and, reaching down, I caressed her cheek, saying, “I know; and you've been doing better with it lately.”

In a shaky voice, she said, “It's just so hard to talk; sometimes I don't even know how! My parents didn't talk to me. All they ever did was yell...and call me stupid...and tell me to shut up and...and other things...and n-now, after all those years of taking th-their abuse-”

She started to sob.

“Shh, don't cry, sweetheart. I'm sorry for not being more patient with you,” I said...

...but she was inconsolable. 

Reaching down, I dragged her up to my chest and held her, saying, “Come on, it's okay now; I promise.”

She shook her head.

I rubbed her back, until she stopped crying, and then asked her, “Are you feeling better now?”

She nodded but, less than a minute later, she started crying again.

I hugged her tightly and said, “Your parents...they're not even here now; so stop thinking about them.”

In a shaky voice, she replied, “I know...and I'm n-not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then, why are you still so upset?” I asked, “Is it because of...of something else?”

She nodded.

“I want you to tell me.”

Instead of answering, she clung even more tightly to me and shook her head.

“Come on, Emma; I know you want to.”

“It's just...just...”

“What, honey?” I asked gently. “Please tell me?”

Finally, she answered, between sobs, “I-I-I don't f-feel well.”

“Where does it hurt?”

She shook her head. “I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's all my f-fault.”

“What is? And why?” I asked.

“Be-because I've been so busy - for so long - that I haven't made any time at all for for us...and for...th-that!”

Releasing myself from her arms, I looked at her lying, still in tears, on the mattress...and then I glanced downward, and then, for the first time...

...I noticed the restless way her hips were tilting; and I realized that something was going on...

...in her downtown region.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“Y-yes.”

“Describe how it feels.”

“Like r-really bad...cramps.”

“Do you have your period?”

“No.”

“So...they're the other kind of bad cramps?”

She nodded.

“Where are they?”

She put her hand on her lower abdomen.

“Here.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Y-yes.”

“Where else are they?”

“You know.”

“No, Emma; I want you to tell me.”

Silence.

“Emma?”

“Lower down, too.”

“Where?”

“Between my...you know.”

“Come on; be specific.”

Silence.

“Emma?”

Finally, she sobbed, “Everything in that whole area is all cramped up...including up inside! And it h-hurts!”

“Don't worry,” I said, laying my hand on her cheek. “we're going to take care of that. Okay?”

She nodded tearfully.

Reaching down, I pulled her shirt tail out.

“P-please!” she sobbed.

“I know...I can see how badly you need this right now.”

As I pushed it up, out of the way, she started to cry.

“Shh, honey. I know it does. And I'm going to help you...right now.”

Reaching down with both hands, I unbuckled her belt. Seconds later, I dropped it over the side of the bed.

Immediately, I reached down to the button at the top of her very expensive khakis. 

As I unbuttoned it, she sobbed, “Alys-sa-sa.”

“I know,” I said. “I know you're in a lot of pain. Just a few more minutes, and then I promise you're going to feel so much better.”

While trying not to sound too eager, I added, “Besides, I can't wait to see your panties.”

Turning my attention away from her face, and down to her zipper, I began to pull...

...but, for some reason, it was stuck.

Looking back up at her, I said, “Just give me a second here,” then resumed my efforts.

But it still didn't move in the least.

Frowning, I redoubled my efforts, but without success...

...no matter what I tried. 

Thirty seconds later, and now yanking downward as hard as I could, I felt my face turning magenta; both from my exertions and from my extreme annoyance.

Why the hell wouldn't it move?!?

As I continued to wrestle with her pants, I suddenly remembered that there was a pair of very sharp scissors over on our desk. Now way beyond frustrated - and determined to grab them and just cut the damned things off her - I jumped up off the bed...

...as Mom pounded on my bedroom door, announcing loudly that it was time to get up.

After hovering, mid-air, for a split second, I began to fall back against it; and realizing this, I flung out my arms to brace myself on impact...

...well, at least, I tried to...

...but only my left arm obliged me, and I landed back on the mattress awkwardly and jarringly.

Seconds later, breathless, I rolled over and looked down...

...to find all five fingers of my right hand tangled up tightly in the drawstring of my pajamas.

Immediately, I struggled to free them, thinking, “Well, no wonder I couldn't unzip her pants!”

“Alyssa?!” Mom's voice called insistently. 

“I'm up; I'm up!”

“Meet me downstairs in an hour; and be sure to wear old clothes,” she directed.

I almost asked why, but remembered that, oh yeah, we're painting.

Having extricated my hand from my drawstring, I headed down the hall and into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As I sat, peeing and half-awake, I moved on to the next order of business: To shower or not to shower? Well, I'm gonna be a grungy mess soon anyway; so should I bother? Then, on the other hand, I am a creature of habit, so...

As I deliberated this, I looked down at my panties...

...and stared, shocked, at the alarming amount of sticky, white discharge I saw in them. 

For the past several years, I'd seen a little, now and then, but nothing like this!

What the hell is it?

And then, to my horror, it dawned on me.

Oh, no.

Oh, God...no!

I've heard other girls in the locker room mention getting yeast infections...but I never dreamed it would happen to me!

When did I catch it?

And how??

And what the hell should I do???

Well, I know what I can't do: I can't go to the pharmacy and buy and meds for it, because my mom knows both of the cashiers who work there!

And I sure as hell don't want to go to the doctor!

Oh, God; I'm so screwed!

I was way beyond scared. So many questions...and absolutely no one I could talk to about it.

Interrupted by the sound of Mom's voice telling me to hurry up, I realized I was going to have to figure this out later. Still, I panicked all during my shower; wondering if yeast infections ever clear up on their own, or if (please, God, no!) I'm going to have to do something about it.

Twenty minutes later, I was back in my bedroom. I didn't want Mom to find my panties, so I hid them, at the bottom of my clothes hamper, until I could do laundry.

As I got dressed, I forced my attention away from my new, unwelcome infection and toward the day ahead. I'd wanted to have a Saturday to myself (for a change); but since Mom seemed to have an entire itinerary planned out, taking a nap and then calling Emma were now out of the question. 

Well, I thought, there is one (minor) consolation: Here, at least, is a chance to dress like a bum for an entire day without criticism! Fifteen minutes later, I (secretly) declared a major victory when I showed up at the breakfast table in a crummy old T-shirt, jeans so frayed that I'd been forbidden to ever wear them outside the house, badly-scuffed sneakers, and a backwards baseball cap with North Shore Construction embroidered on it; which mom received at a real estate convention and had then passed on to me.

After downing a huge bowl of oatmeal (gross) and some toast which I swear originated on a forest floor (“you need fiber dear; everyone does”); I looked across the table at Mom, waiting for her to finish eating.

She soon did; and then announced that, today, we'd be painting the baseboards...

...in our entire house!

As my heart plummeted, she whipped out a multi-paged, hand-written, room-by-room 'plan of attack.' After laying out twenty minutes of mind-numbing instructions, which I admit I only half-listened to, she led me into the living room and told me to help her push the furniture toward the center of the room.

We then did the same in every other room until, an hour later, I leaned against the nearest wall to catch my breath; relieved that, since the furniture was now out of the way, we could finally get started with the painting

No, Alyssa...wrong answer! 

Mom then informed me that I was now going to apply blue painter's tape (neatly(!) along the floor; at the bottom edge of every single linear foot of quarter round. Seconds later, she handed me a box containing about twenty huge rolls of it; and then turned her attention to filling a tray with white hi-gloss enamel paint, and attaching a head to the Baseboard Buddy she'd bought; which, for the record, is an angled roller on a long handle, so you can use it while standing up.

Oh, great, I thought; I'll be crawling around on my hands and knees all day, while she just strolls around each room, painting leisurely.

Now officially resentful I, with effort, turned my attention away from my sore knees and toward my taping.

After what seemed an eternity, I fiiiinally finished and, wondering how far behind me Mom was, I retraced my trajectory, through the entire second floor; but there was no sign of her.

Confused, I headed downstairs and then ran from room to room, noting that absolutely nothing had been painted yet.

Finally, I found her where I'd left her: in the living room...but sitting at her desk, reading the mail! What the hell?!?

“Why didn't you start yet?” I asked.

“I was waiting for you,” she answered.

“Well, I'm done,” I replied, hands on hips and heaving a massive (inward) sigh of relief.

“No, you're not,” she announced.

“Wh-what?”

Rising from her chair, she said, “I'll roll out, but you need to crawl behind me with the brush, to even out the surfaces, flatten out the drips, and make sure paint gets into every crevice where the baseboards meet the quarter-round. Now, get moving.”

I didn't even bother to argue with her. 

I realized that there was no way out.

And so, already decidedly aching, I bent down and picked up my brush with a sigh.

By the end of the day, my knees (plus every other part of my anatomy) were absolutely killing me, but at least we had finished the job.

Less than five minutes later, I fell face-down on my bed, way too exhausted even to dwell on Emma; but, in the half minute before I conked out, I imagined her removing my shoes and socks, and then my shirt, and then my jeans, and then laying me face-down on the bed and placing her hands on my aching shoulderz-z-z-z

XXXXX

At Mom's unwelcome announcement that, “It's time to get ready for church,” I sat up obediently...

...and bit back a scream as every single muscle screamed in protest.

Right then and there, I vowed to never again skip my night time shower, which would have helped ease my pain, if only a little. With difficulty, I managed to limp over to my bedroom door; and, upon opening it, saw that Mom had already headed downstairs.

And then, with Herculean effort, I raised my arms and, pressing my palms flat against the wall, inched my way down the hall and toward the bathroom.

Ninety minutes later, I was limping into church; thankful that, since the service was about to start, there was no time for any nosy people (a/k/a 99% of the congregation) to ask prying questions. 

Even though the seat was upholstered, I was still in agony, and seriously regretted not taking Adville before leaving the house. Unfortunately, since getting ready had taken so long – and Mom had rushed me out the door the instant I'd finished - I didn't have a chance.

As Reverend Carson took his place behind the pulpit, I quickly decided to that best way to distract myself from wanting to cry/scream throughout the entire service was by focusing closely on the sermon.

For the record, I have absolutely no interest in becoming a member of the clergy, but if I did, I'd spread messages of positivity, such as “Be happy; God loves you.” 

Reverend Carson, however, does not share my views.

Today's sermon, in sound bytes:

1\. God is all-mighty, all-knowing, and all-powerful.

2\. Thinking about sinful things is every bit as bad as actually doing them.

3\. God sees every single wrong thing you think and do; no matter how hard you try to hide it from Him...

4\. ...and will punish you accordingly. (This last comment was delivered while staring straight down the center aisle; where I sat, cringing, at the end of the third pew.)

To my complete surprise (considering how I've been thinking/acting the past two days), I managed to make it home without being struck by Divine lightening from above. 

I downed my lunch of flank steak, with horseradish cream sauce and side of broccoli, quickly (but without being obvious about it): and then said I wanted to study for my test. The reality was that I wanted to get the hell away from Mom (I'd already been lectured more than enough for one day). 

Twenty minutes later, having changed out of my church outfit and into something much more comfortable; I lay on the bed, opened my textbook and notebook, grabbed a pen, and then settled down to the very serious business of...

...thinking about Emma.

I really wished she was here right now; especially since I felt so utterly 'used and abused' from yesterday's painting marathon. I needed some serious loving up; and I knew that to lie with her arms around me would make me feel at least 90% better.

I also realized that I needed to hear her voice, but before I could reach over to my nightstand and grab my phone, it rang.

My heart lurched in my chest when I saw who was calling.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“I wish I could see you!” I blurted out, immediately kicking myself for saying it in such a whiny/needy tone of voice.

“Same here.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, and...” Her voice trailed off.

“And?” I prompted.

No response...

...but as I waited for one, I suddenly had an idea, although unsure if it was a good one: Would it be easier for her to talk about her problem(s) on the phone? It would probably be harder for me, since I won't be able to see her expression. Still, was there really any downside to asking?

Although uncertain, I quickly made my mind up to tempt fate by letting her decide.

“Emma?”

“Sorry. I'm still here.”

Taking a deep breath, I began, “I hereby declare this to be an Open Forum. I'll be happy to discuss anything you like...whatever's on your mind...anything at all!”

“Whatever you want to talk about, I guess,” she replied.

“No, Emma,” I said firmly. “I want you to decide. Just tell me the very first thing that comes to your mind.”

She was silent for a bit, then said, “Well, let's see. Tomorrow, we only have a half day of school. It will suck not to see you.”

“Likewise,” I agreed. “Do you have anything planned for that afternoon?”

“Yes. I promised Grandmom that I'd clean out her basement.”

“The two of you?”

“No. Just me alone.”

I wasn't sure how to reply, so she broke the silence, explaining, “Because of her bad knee, I don't want her lifting heavy stuff and schlepping it up the stairs. So, what about you?”

“I'm going to the mall. Kaylie insists she needs my help picking out new a new handbag; and while we're there, we're going to have lunch.”

“Well,” she replied, “I'm not a fan of handbags; but, still, that sounds like a lot more fun than sorting through a lot of-”

She didn't finish...

...but, for once, I actually knew exactly what she was thinking.

“I'm sorry you can't come, too,” I told her.

“It's okay,” she replied, but I clearly heard the disappointment in her voice.

And it broke my heart.

But I never ask her to go anywhere with me....

...because I can't be seen with her in public.

Well, then, I thought, maybe I'll get her a gift while I'm there...but then again, maybe not, because it will remind her that she wasn't invited.

The silence dragged on, and the only thing I could think of to say was, “Emma; maybe someday my mom will come around, and then you can come visit.”

“Yeah,” she replied, but without sounding the least bit convinced.

To be honest, neither was I. She's so upset; and now, instead of helping, I'm only making things worse. But I still couldn't think of a single, positive thing to say.

She broke the silence. “I wish I could see you right now.”

The way she said it broke my heart all over again.

Wanting to (hopefully) cheer her up, I said, “Emma, while I'm at the mall...can I get you anything?”

“Like what?” she asked.

“I'd like to get you a gift...to, you know, to let you know I was thinking about you all day.”

“Uh...like what?” she repeated.

“Well, is there anything you need? A new notebook? A hairbrush? Some socks?” I asked, immediately kicking myself as I realized that none of those items are the least bit romantic.

“Not really,” she replied. “I can't think of anything I need right now.”

“I'd really like to, though,” I added.

She didn't answer.

Unsure where to go from there, I decided to change the subject. “Emma, I wish I could see you, too. If we were together, right now, what would you like to do?” I asked, hoping that she would say she'd like for us to talk.

“Uh...I-” she hesitated, and then, sounding puzzled, she added, “I'm open to suggestions.”

Unfortunately, I didn't have any. 

A moment later, my history book slid off the bed; and, as I leaned down and over to retrieve it from the floor, I groaned loudly.

“What was that? Are you okay??” she asked; and I heard the concern in her voice.

Well, at least here was something for us to talk about!

I spent the next fifteen minutes describing my Saturday from hell; ending with, “...and now, every single inch of me aches...from my hair to my toes!”

“Wow, even your hair hurts?”

“It sure feels like it.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, then, I know what I'd do if we were together. I'd try to help you feel better.”

Unsure what she meant, I asked, “How?”

After another moment's hesitation, she said, “Um, well, if I was with you right now, I'd make sure the band closet's door was locked, like always; and then I'd reach over and...what's the most painful part of you right now?”

“My knees, definitely,” I told her.

“I'm not sure how a knee massage would work.”

“Neither am I,” I admitted.

After a few moments of silence, she said, “Well, then, how about if I rubbed your back instead?”

“I'd like that.”

“And your shoulders?” she added.

“I wish you could,” I whispered

Silence.

“Emma?”

“I'm still here.”

“What are you thinking?” I asked, praying that she'd (finally) say she wanted to talk to me.

“Um...”

“Please tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“Yes, tell me how you would, uh...fix my back.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “Uh, I guess I'd wrap my arms around you...and hug you for really long time...and then, I'd move my hands up to your shoulders and work out all of the knots for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“And then?” I asked.

“Um, and then I'd move my hands down gradually, and do the same thing, until your entire back stopped aching.”

As she spoke, I listened very carefully for any signs of enthusiasm, but her voice sounded very matter of fact; and so, doing my best to ignoring my disappointment, I asked, “Would we still be standing up?”

“If that's what you want.” She hesitated, then said, “And...I'm not sure what would be next.”

“That's okay,” I replied with a smile, “because I do.” 

“What?”

“And then, I'd thank you...” I began...

 

...but, suddenly, I had another idea, and continued, “And then, Emma...I'd ask you what you would like.”

“What do you mean?”

Heart pounding, I took a deep breath and, focusing on keeping my voice even, I continued, “Well, I'd be so grateful for what you did, that I'd want to do something for you.”

“You don't have to.”

“But I really want to,” I insisted. “So, what would you like that to be?”

“I...I really don't know.”

“Well, then,” I continued, “would you let me decide on something?”

“I guess.”

“Okay.” I took a moment to pray that I wouldn't say anything stupid/destructive, then continued, in a low, calm voice, “I'd hug you, for a very long time, and tell you how much I appreciate what you did...and that I'd like to do something just as nice for you.”

She didn't reply, so I took a deep breath and continued, “And I'd ask if we could sit down for a little while.”

“But...there's nowhere in there to sit,” she pointed out.

Fortunately, I had one in mind.

“Do you know that empty spot in the corner, at the far end of the row of drums?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Realizing (but not mentioning) that, fortunately, it was faaaar away from the bin, I continued, “Well, I'd take you by the hand and lead you over there. And then, I'd fold up my jacket and put it on the floor and sit down on it. And then, I'd reach up and take your hands in mine, until you knelt down beside me. Then, I'd pull you over onto my lap and take you in my arms, and lean back against the wall.”

No response...but I wasn't ready to give up.

“And then, I'd move your head down onto my shoulder...and I'd hold you so close to me...for such a long time. Would you like that?”

“Y-yes.”

“And then, I'd say, in a very low voice, just like I am right now, “Emma, thank you for helping me feel so much better when I was hurting so badly.”

I paused for a few seconds, then continued, “And now, I want to help you feel better, too.”

No response.

“And then,” I continued, “I'd start to rock you in my arms, and I'd say, 'I know you're hurting right now. I know there's something on your mind; and it seems like this huge, frightening, horrible thing; and you feel like you can't talk to me about it.”

I heard a tiny sniff.

“But, I also know that you wish you could.”

No response.

Trying to keep my voice low, I continued, “And then, I'm going to hold you, for such a long time, until you understand how safe you are, and how loved; and then, while you're safe in my arms, you can tell me, because I know how badly you want to...and...and you don't even have to tell me all of it right now...just one tiny little piece...just one little bit...and I promise that I won't ask you for more; and I promise that I won't even ask any questions at all.” 

I heard a very low sob.

“And, then,” I continued, “you can take as long as you need...hours, even days, before you realize that you're ready to come to me again. And then, when you do, we'll sit down together again, and I'll take you in my arms and hold you so close to me again, and you'll feel so safe again; and it will be even easier now, because you'll see that nothing bad happened the first time. And then, we'll sit there in silence, for as long as you need to; until, when you're ready, you can tell me a little bit more; and then again; and eventually, you'll have told me all of it; and I'm going to be so patient with you, and so gentle, and so understanding. And then, once you've told me, I can help you fix it...if it's something that needs to be fixed. And then, you're going to feel so much bet-”

I heard her uneven breathing and knew she was sobbing quietly.

“Will you close your eyes for me?

“Y-y-yes.”

I gave her a moment and then continued, slowly, “I'm right here with you, right now, and you're in my arms, and your head is on my shoulder, and I know you're scared; but, I'm holding you so close to m-”

“A-l-lyssa,” she sobbed.

“It's okay,” I whispered; “I know you want to tell me...don't you?

“Y-yes.”

“Only a little tiny part of it, okay?”

“Y-y-yes.” 

“I know you're scared,” I whispered, “and I also know that it's going to help you feel so much bet-”

She started to cry.

“Shh...” I said quietly. “Okay; it's okay. Let's take a couple of minutes and not say anything...and then we'll try again...all right?”

“O-k-kay.”

And then, as I listened to her struggling to get her breathing under control...

...the silence of my bedroom was interrupted by the very unwelcome sound of my mother, heading up our staircase and talking on her phone.

“No, Roger; I haven't forgotten; I'm heading over there in a few minutes. Did City Council grant the variance yet? They haven't? Well, then, I guess our next move is to call Mike Hurley and ask if we can file a-no...I already submitted that form; I meant the-drat!!!”

She stopped speaking abruptly and, a split second later, I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from first floor.

Oh, no. 

She had dropped it over the banister.

Two seconds later, and without knocking, she flung my bedroom door open.

“Alyssa, I need your phone.”

“But-”

“Probably for the rest of the day,” she added, “I have to go out, and I must have fifty calls to make.”

“B-but-”

“I'm going to clean up the broken glass, but I'll be back in two minutes; so say goodbye to Kaylie or Shelby or whoever you're talking to.”

“But-”

“Now, Alyssa!” she concluded, turning on her heel and walking out.

“Emma-?”

Her breathing still noticeably ragged, she managed to say, “I h-heard...and it's okay.”

“I'm really sorry, I told her. “I don't even know what time I'm going to get it back.”

“Alyssa?”

“Yes?”

Are you sure you're going to be there on Tuesday?”

I knew she was referring to the band closet.

“Of course I will,” I assured her. “Why do you think that I wouldn't?”

Instead of answering, she sobbed, “On T-tuesday, I promise, I...I'll...I promise!”

“I know; I know you will,” I said softly, “and I promise that I'll be holding you so close when you do...and I promise that it only has to be a tiny little part of it...and that I won't ask for any more at all. Do you believe me?”

“Y-yes.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do y-you believe m-me?”

I smiled. “Emma; you're the most honest person I've ever met; of course I believ-shit! Here she comes!”

I made two smoochy kisses at the phone and heard her do the same...our standard farewell; and then I heard line go dead.

Immediately, I held the phone out to my mother, so I resented the way she took it from my outstretched hand...not in a blatant snatch, but still...

A second later, she was dialing.

“Sorry, Roger, I dropped my phone. No, it's shattered, so I borrowed Alyssa's. I know we have an incredibly-long list of calls to make. I'm leaving right now and should be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

She said goodbye to him, and then turned to face me.

“This may be a late night; I'm not sure; so dinner's in the fridge. The Romaine, veggies, chicken, and Parmesan cheese are all in one bowl. Just add the Caesar dressing when you're ready to eat...and make sure you study.”

I nodded.

I listened to the sound of retreating footsteps and, two minutes later, the sound of her car motor as she drove off.

As frustrating as it was to have my conversation with Emma interrupted, just as she was about to spill, I knew for a fact that, on Tuesday, she'd keep her promise...

...and that I'd keep mine and not ask for more. 

No matter what she told me...or how little. 

Groaning loudly, I shifted my aching body on the mattress.

I needed a nap badly.

Closing my eyes, I decided that, if Mom brought my phone back early, I'd call Emma this evening...but I wouldn't mention our upcoming conversation at all...that way, she'd see that there is absolutely no pressure.

And then, suddenly, I knew what I wanted to ask her about (if I can call her this evening). I finally had an idea of what I wanted to get her while at the mall tomorrow.

Candy Castle (a/k/a Cavity Castle) is the best store at our rinky-dink mall; and I knew that Emma would appreciate a gift from there...but what kind? 

Chocolate or gummy? 

I debated this for a minute or two; finally deciding that, as long as I didn't get her anything mocha flavored (Emma hates coffee), she'd be happy. And so, I concluded, instead of asking, I want her to be surprised; so let's just see what they have first, and then decide...and ask them to gift wrap it for me.

With this happy thought in mind, I soon drifted off (lapsed into a coma might be a better description) easily and, several hours later, opened my eyes to darkness. 

“Mom?” I called out.

No answer.

Immediately, I reached for my phone...but then remembered where it was.

Still in excruciating pain, I lay back against my pillow; grateful that I'm usually not hungry for at least an hour after waking up; because I was currently in way too much agony to navigate the stairs.

Dinner can wait.

As I shifted on the mattress; trying – and failing - to get comfortable, I debated heading to the bathroom and grabbing some Addville, but ultimately, I remained where I was.

It hurt too much to move.

Well, what now? I'm in too much pain to go have dinner...so, what should I do instead?

Read? 

My history book had fallen off the bed again, and I was NOT interested in subjecting my poor, aching body to any additional punishment in order to retrieve it. And my bookcase was all the way over on the other side of the room; so, no way!

Well, what other options are left? Are there any that don't require me to move?

Suddenly, I realized that there is one: Thinking.

My first thought was one of gratitude: Mom is going to be so busy today that she won't have time root through my phone, looking for damning evidence or something(s) new to complain about. 

My second thought: I'm not going to see Emma at all tomorrow...and how sad she had sounded when she'd mentioned it.

My third thought: hating that I'm too much of a coward to be seen with her in public.

That's so incredibly unfair to her, I realized; so there has to be a way to spend time with her outside the band closet. Maybe go somewhere with a bunch of people...including Emma...so it won't look like the two of us are on a date?

However, seconds later, I realized that this idea wouldn't work. Absolutely one at our school wants to hang out with – or even talk to - her now.

There has to be some other way, I insisted; but after wracking my brain for the next half hour, I was forced to conclude that, sadly, there was not.

As much as I was going to miss Emma (and her kisses) tomorrow, I realized that the afternoon was going to be even worse for her...stuck in a dusty basement with no one to talk to.

I then thought back to her promise to talk to me on Tuesday about whatever is bothering her, and immediately began to strategize...

...and immediately ordered myself to stop.

No.

Instinctively, I felt that the best way to go about it was to let things unfold as they were going to. Let her say whatever she's going to, then give her a couple of days, then take her into my arms again and ask her, very gently, to tell me a little more.

And then, repeat as necessary.

I wish I could take her into my arms right now. No matter how loudly my muscles would protest, I'd gladly endure their shrieks of pain if she was lying here on top of me. At this thought, my first instinct was to reach over and grab Emmapillow; but I quickly decided against subjecting myself to any more agony.

Let's see, what should I think about next? 

Something pleasant...but what?

I looked back, over the past week or so, but couldn't come up with anything happy to focus on.

Or could I? 

What about the dream I had this morning?

It was lovely...well, the first 90% of it was.

Settling back against my pillow, I closed my eyes and, a minute later, I found my thoughts drifting back to Emma and I, in our New York City penthouse...

We'd just finished an early dinner, and had retired to the living room couch. As I listened to the sounds of Alex, our personal chef, cleaning up in the kitchen, I looked across the room at our massive fireplace. It was now mid-May, and the evenings had just turned warm enough that we didn't need to light it. Staring at its closed glass doors, I clearly saw our couch reflected in them; and then I zeroed in on Emma, who sat at its far end in silence, with an expression of absolute contentment on her face. 

Smiling, I sat watching her, for perhaps ten minutes; and then, I stood up and turned in the direction of our master bedroom. 

Emma looked up. “Calling it a night?” she asked.

“Soon,” I replied, “...and you?”

“I'll be there in a little while.”

With a nod, I headed for our bedroom, calling over my shoulder, “You'd better!”

Two minutes later, I heard her at our front door, talking to Alex. “Last Sunday's brunch was incredible, Alex; you really outdid yourself.”

“As always, it was a pleasure,” he replied.

I heard the smile in her voice as she continued, “Our friends had such a lovely time! And so, Alyssa and I would like to give you a little something.”

There was a moment's silence, while she handed him the check...

...and then, I heard him gasp.

Loudly.

“Ms. Nolan! You're so generous!”

“And you're so deserving,” she said graciously.

His voice now shaking, he added, “B-but, you just gave me that yacht for my birthday birthday last week...and now this?!?”

“Alyssa and I are so appreciative of your efforts,” she replied.

After he thanked her profusely, she bade him goodnight; and then, I listened as she closed the seventeen locks on the front door.

When she walked into our room, I was over in the Northeast corner, kneeling on the floor.

“What are you doing down there?” she asked.

“Struggling to put my shoes away,” I answered. “There's no room in here, with these other 300 pairs.”

“Well, what about one of your other seven closets?” she suggested.

“Also full,” I informed her.

Two minutes later, I gave up. Setting my shoes just outside the door, I got up off the floor and stretched in all directions...

...and noticed Emma standing in front of one of our windows, looking out pensively over Central Park; watching as the last vestiges of late-afternoon sun disappeared behind the trees.

Finally, curiosity got the better of me. “What are you thinking about?”

Without looking over at me, she replied, “I was thinking that these 27 rooms of ours just aren't enough space.”

I nodded. “And?

“And that the other penthouse apartment, next door, is up for sale.”

“And?”

She hesitated for a moment, then turned to me and added, “I really think we should buy it and have the two connected. That way, we'll have double the space we currently do; and you can have another seven or eight closets.”

“Oh, honey,” I gushed, “you're so thoughtful!”

Emma nodded. “Well, it's the least I can do for the girl I-” Suddenly, she stopped speaking. “Alyssa?”

“Yes?”

She frowned. “Why are you even putting your own shoes away in the first place? That's why we hired Tilly, as your personal valet, to look after your clothes.”

“And she does an excellent job,” I replied. “Unfortunately, she's in Paris right now; picking up those dish towels you wanted.”

Emma slapped her forehead. “Oh, that's right. I forgot that we sent her there. Damn that online company for not shipping to the U.S.!” 

Suddenly, she looked down at the floor.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Are you feeling guilty that we sent her all the way there to run an errand? Don't. You really wanted those towels...they were the only ones you could find that were the exact shades of teal, ecru, and gray to match our kitchen back splash!”

Without looking up, she nodded. 

I stood, staring at her, then my curiosity (again) got the better of me, and I asked, “Now, what are you thinking?”

She lifted her eyes to mine. “I was thinking how nice it is that we never, ever have to worry about money,” she said; and her face lit up suddenly. “Just look at you, Ms. Alyssa-I-just-releaed-my-37th-novel-Greene!”

With a smile, I replied, “Well, I hoped that my line of lesbian erotica books would do well, but-”

“Do well???” she asked, incredulously. “They're wildly successful...and so are you! I just wish all those straight boys would stop writing to you!”

I shrugged. “It's part of the price of fame.”

“Alyssa, you're such a trooper!” she added. “Every week, I see a huge bin of drool-stained letters on the floor next to your desk...and you always read them all!”

“Well, if they spent the time and money to buy and read my books...” my voice trailed off. 

Tilting her head slightly to one side, Emma asked, suspiciously, “Are most of them writing to request that you include gross stuff in your future novels?”

I shook my head. “No. A few do, but most of them are thanking me.”

“Thanking you? For what?”

Well,” I explained, “in the long run, spending $24.99 is much less expensive than paying $3 per minute for their usual...er...entertainment; and so, most of them are thanking me from saving them from financial ruin!”

“It's no surprise that so many people love your work,” Emma gushed. “Back in school, didn't I always say that you have a flair for writing?” 

I nodded, then said, “Well, back in school, I always knew that you'd be successful, too...but not as an inventor! Tell me, how did you come up with such an original idea for a product?”

She looked down at our hideously-expensive, hand-made Persian rug for a moment, and then back up at me and answered, “Well, there are a lot of different coffee-based energy drinks out there.”

I nodded.

“And you know that I hate coffee?” she continued.

Again, I nodded.

“And so,” she continued, “I started thinking how great it would be to have a tea-based energy drink; and then, I thought, 'Instead of using only one tea bag per serving, why not twelve?' And that's how InsaniTEA was born.” 

I nodded, then said, “And then, Emma the Genius came up with a line of flavors so unique that she was able to trademark them, thus eliminating any and all competition!”

She nodded. 

With a smile, I continued, “But, Emma, your most brilliant strategy of all was to put your drinks into mirrored bottles. That way, when customers reach into the store's refrigerator case, they see their reflections in them – and, realizing how exhausted and haggard they look, they grab several bottles, instead of just one! And then, the public went crazy – especially the college crowd – and then sales went through the roof! Oh, Emma, I'm so proud of you!”

Even though she was standing all the way over by the far window, I still clearly saw her blush. 

Realizing that I did, she quickly replied, “Well, I'm so proud of you, too!”

With a self-satisfied smirk, I asked, “Is that due to: A) my mad writing skillz...or B) my flawless taste in Emmas?”

She shook her head. “No; the correct answer is C.

“Oooh!” I squealed, “All of the above?”

Immediately, she answered, “No, Alyssa. C) none of the above.”

“Wh-what?” I asked, bewildered. “Well, then, what exactly are you proud of me for?”

Wearing her most serious expression, she said, “For your unbelievable restraint during the past ten minutes. Every single other time I've walked through that door, you were immediately all over me!”

I looked at the floor.

“And that's what you'd like to do right now, isn't it?” she continued.

I shrugged.

Seconds later, I heard her walk over.

“It's okay. Come on, I know that you want to...don't you?”

Instead of answering her (I couldn't), I started to sob.

Seconds later, I felt her hand on my shoulder. “What's wrong? Whatever it is, it's going to be okay; I promise.”

I shook my head. “N-no...it's not!”

“And why is that?”

“B-because your zipper will get stuck again...like it did last time!”

“Maybe it won't,” she said, then added, “Go ahead; perhaps you'll have better luck this time.”

I shook my head. “No...I never get to undress you! I never-we've never-not since...not ever!”

Sounding guilty, she said, “I know...but that's all my fault; and didn't I promise you that my schedule will be fixed, once and for all, by the end of next week?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then...why are you still crying?”

I flung myself into her arms, sobbing, “I-I really w-want to see your panties...and I never get to!”

Without a word, she led me over to the bed; and, reaching down, took hold of my hands and placed them on the front of her shoulders.

I wavered, hating that I was about to be disappointed again...

...but, less than a minute later, my insatiable curiosity won , and I pushed her down onto the bed. 

Lowering her onto her back, I knelt next to her.

Filled with apprehension, I looked down at her belt but seconds later, and to my immense relief, I watched it disappear over the side of the bed.

Less than a minute later, her top button was open.

And then, my hands shaking, I took hold of her zipper.

Nearly a minute passed, during which I continued to sob at the probable disappointment that was to follow; but then, holding my breath, I slowly began to pull...

...and to my astonishment, it moved easily. 

Terrified that it could seize up at any moment, I moved very, very slowly, watching as it slid down...

...and the front of her pants began to open...

...until, suddenly, only an inch below her belly button, I saw a flash of pale pink...silk.

My eyes flew open as an incredible contraction ripped through my entire pelvis.

Eager to feel the next one(s), I closed them again.

A second later, I was back with Emma, saying, “You hate pink; you don't own anything that's pink.”

“I do now...since it's your favorite,” she replied...”and I bought twenty more pairs, exactly the same! And, from now on, they're all I'm going to be wear-”

...and my back arched violently at the intensity of the second one.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily, wanting to have more contractions.

I loved the way they felt.

And so, I closed my eyes...

...and focused my mind on trying to make them happen.

And they did...again and again...

...as I pulled Emma's pants off her completely...

...and then again, as she reached down and removed mine as well...

...and then again, as I pulled her shirt over her head...

...and then again, as she rolled me over onto my back...

...and then again as, my eyes now open, I slid my right hand down my hip, over the sweatpants I was wearing. 

And, at that moment, I realized that I wanted nothing more than to untie their drawstring.

And so, I did.

And then, I realized that I wanted nothing more than to pull them down.

And so, I did.

Lifting my hips off the mattress, I pushed them down, way down, past my hips.

And then, heart pounding, I rested my right palm against my stomach, on the outside of my panties.

And then, in in addition to the frequent contractions I'd been having, I felt something else: a dull, strong, persistent ache between my legs.

I lay, completely still, for several minutes, wondering if it would go away...

...but it didn't subside in the least.

And I didn't know whether or not I wanted it to.

And, suddenly, even though I'd never done anything remotely like this, I wanted nothing more than to touch myself, between my legs, while imagining it was someone else's hand.

And not just anyone else's. 

And then, my entire body now shaking, I slid one of my fingers under the waistband of my panties...

...and then another...

...and then another...

...and then, my entire hand...

...holding my breath, as it slid lower and lower...

...until, just an inch away its intended target...

...I froze.

What the hell am I doing??? Just this morning, didn't Reverend Carson say that God sees every single thing you think and do?

Come on, Alyssa, do it; just for a minute.

You're going to be judged...and punished severely.

But then again, with all the awful things going on in the world right now - such as the current situation in the Middle East - does God really care if my hand is between my legs?

Eternity is a long time to spend in hell.

It's going to be so easy; just open your legs. (I did.)

Pleasuring yourself is an incredibly selfish act; your Bible Camp counselor said so...on several occasions. 

But I'm already in the middle of this, so I'm already in trouble. What's a little more?

It's going to be a LOT more! You're going to be so sorry; because God's already seen what you're up to.

But it aches! And I want to!

It aches because you're doing something so incredibly sinful. Does it ache when you're not thinking these thoughts/trying to touch yourself?

Well, no...but-

Come on, Alyssa; don't do something that you know is so blatantly wron-

Shut the hell up!!!

Doing my best to ignore...whatever that voice was...I, now breathing heavily, pulled my hand out of my panties. Reaching down with both hands, I opened my legs, as far as they would go and then, instead of what I really wanted, I began sliding my palms up and down the insides of my thighs, while making very sure not to actually touch what was between them. 

While it felt incredibly good, it did absolutely nothing to help my now-intensifying ache subside.

Come on, I told myself, just slide one hand up a little farther, just a couple of inches, and then over to the side, and then...

But, as badly as I wanted to, I couldn't. I lay there, wrestling with the desire for a long time but, in the end, fear of hell won out. Trying to ignore the now-horrible pain between my legs, I pulled my sweatpants back up and lay, staring up at the ceiling, and near tears.

How could something that feels so wonderful be bad?

How can wanting to help another person feel it be bad?

What would my body have done if I'd kept going? Something amazing, I'll bet! I mean, if just thinking about it causes such incredible contractions, how would it respond to touching?

Why is there no one I can talk to about this?!?

Unfortunately, I had no answers.

I did, however, have to pee.

Two minutes later, mid-stream, I looked down at my panties, and my heart skipped a beat.

Oh, my God!

Oh, my God...NO!

There's at least twice as much as yesterday; and, instead of being sticky, now it's so...slippery looking! My infection is obviously getting worse!

As terrifying as it is, I'm going to have to tell Mom!

Getting into the shower, I washed between my legs (oh, no, more discharge(!); and, after getting dressed, I threw my undies, (including the ones I had on yesterday) in the washer, along with my very damp sweatpants (yes, there was that much)! 

Leaning against the washer, I was forced to confront the worst yhing of all: when Mom the Hypochondriac finds out (and, even if I don't tell her, I know that she's going to(!), she'll insist on taking me straight to the doctor; and the soul-scarring ordeal of being examined by a gynecologist - with my mother standing right next to the exam table - is too horrifying to even contemplate!

As I (totally against my will) contemplated it anyway - in elaborate/graphic detail - suddenly, I thought, “Hey, wait a minute. Isn't a yeast infection supposed to burn and/or itch?”

Then, I realized that this does neither. 

But, if it's not a yeast infection...then what could it possibly be?

It took a couple of minutes but, eventually, I made the connection. 

Relieved, I ate dinner while waiting for the laundry to be finished.

Next, still sore (yes, especially there...still(!) and bored, I took another nap.

Two hours later, I woke up to find that Mom had come home and left my phone on my nightstand...

...and that she didn't bother to plug it in for me, even though the charger was right next to my alarm clock.

And now, thanks to all the calls she made, the battery's completely dead.

And, even if I recharge it myself, it will be too late to call Emma, I realized.

And so, trying to ignore the relentless pain between my legs, which was still loudly demanding my attention, I rolled over and closed my eyes again.

XXXXX

My first thought upon waking up: I'm not going to see Emma at all today...and that sucks!

My second thought: then again, Mom rarely lets me go anywhere, especially with a friend, so I should be thrilled.

My third thought: I'm going to have a rotten time anyway because, since I'm such a coward, Emma won't be there with me.

I tried to shift my focus back to that second thought: Mom is okay with me hanging out with Kaylie (very occasionally) because she's friends with her parents; and because Kaylie acts like a perfect little angel every time she sees my mom (although, unbeknownst to Mom, the reality is quite different).

Mom and I ate breakfast in silence, which was far preferable to her giving me 1,001 instructions on how to spend my afternoon's parole.

To my relief, my English and History classes passed without incident; and I then joined the crush of students who were sprinting toward the exits.

As I walked the two blocks to the nearest bus stop, I decided not to call Emma at all today. She was going to be busy in the basement all afternoon, and a disruption from me would only prolong her agony

Less than ten minutes later, I was on the 505; feeling guilty the entire time because Emma wasn't with me. 

Twenty minutes later, I disembarked, less than enthusiastically, outside our lame-assed mall. Then again, I realized, there's not much else to do around here, so it's still a fairly entertaining way to kill an afternoon.

Kaylie had instructed me to meet her just inside the main entrance...

...in front of a hair salon called Curl Up & Dye. 

I walked over to it and checked my watch. 

Twenty minutes early.

Next, I looked up and down the mall's atrium. It wasn't very crowded, so I turned my attention toward the storefronts...

...and at one in particular: Candy Castle was across the hall, and only three doors down; so why not just run over there and have a fast look around? As I contemplated this, another thought occurred to me: Do you really want Kaylie with you while you're shopping for something that's going to be gift wrapped? There's no need to deal with any nosy questions from her. Having answered my own question, I hurried across and down the hall and walked into the store.

Ten seconds later, I saw it.

In the store's International Treats section.

Right next to the assortment of Scottish shortbread.

Walking over to my right, I reached up and took it off the shelf...

...and, as I looked down at the long flat box of authentic, assorted fruit Turkish Delight, I smiled.

Turkish Delight. Just like Edmund had asked the Queen for...

...and Emma told me once that she absolutely loves that book series!

Well, there's no need to bother looking at any of the store's numerous other options. This one is perfect!

At the register, I gladly paid the fifteen dollars (plus tax), and asked the lady behind the counter to gift wrap it for me. While she did, I glanced at my watch. I still had seven minutes; but, just to be on the safe side, I walked to the front entrance and looked over at the salon. 

No sign of Kaylie yet.

Good.

Five minutes later, Emma's gift safely stowed in my backpack, I hurried across the hall, and over to the front of the salon; and then, I waited...

...and waited...

...and waited; until nearly forty minutes later, and now thoroughly exasperated, my phone rang.

Without bothering to say hello, I blurted out, “Where the hell are you?!”

“Alyssa,” she said, “I'm so sorry! This is the first chance I've had to use my phone!”

“Where the hell are you?” I repeated.

“I''m so sorry!” she repeated. “I wanted to call you earlier, but King Konger took my phone away!”

“W-what? How?”

“I got detention again! The only reason I'm able to call you right now is she got called out of the room and left my phone on her desk!”

Still highly annoyed, I asked, “Detention for what?” 

“For texting Nick, under my desk, during class.”

“Oh, God, not again!” I replied. “What did you say this time?”

“Y-you know about the first time...how?” she demanded.

“On Friday, I was concerned about you, so I asked Shelby.”

With a sigh, Kaylie said, “Well, then, I guess I can tell you the rest. I was complaining to him about her stupid petition; and ended my rant by saying, 'Fuck her!'; and he said, 'No, thanks, but you can if you want; it might improve her mood!, and I said, 'No way; I wouldn't touch her dusty old snatch with your dic-'...and that's when she busted me!”

When I didn't reply, she added, “I can't talk much longer; I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I have to cancel our...oh, shit!”

From the abrupt way the line went dead, I was pretty sure E.K.K. had returned.

Whatever.

Wandering over to the center of the atrium, I sat down on the edge of its fountain, staring at the hundreds of pennies under the surface of its rippling water; while thinking what a complete waste of a half-day off it was turning out to be...and how much more fun I'd be having if I could spend it, almost anywhere, with Emma.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, but eventually it occurred to me that, as long as I'm here, I might as well have lunch.

After extensive contemplation of the mall food court's seven “dining” options, I settled on the Food & Brew, the only non-chain restaurant; and ordered a grilled chicken sandwich. Dessert was caramel flan, and it was so good that I went back up and bought a second one. I'm not sure which was more delicious: the dessert itself, or that I'd had two of them, and Mom would never find out! 

Lunch over, I debated what to do, finally settling on walking from one end of the mall to the other. Having done this, I realized that I was bored and decided to call it a day.

What's the point of staying?

After all, I don't really need to buy anything. 

And I really don't want to buy anything...

...or do I? 

Less than a minute later, I was hurriedly retracing my steps back down to to the far end of the mall; and then, after a bit (okay, a lot) of hesitation, I walked into Carrington's Department Store.

And then, with my heart pounding, I took the elevator to the Third Floor...


	4. Chapter 4

I spent most of Tuesday morning study hall anticipating/relieved that I (finally) was about to find out what's been bothering Emma (well, at least part of it, anyway); and, upon leaving the library, I hurried toward the Second Floor's west wing.

Two minutes later, I stopped in front of the band closet's door...

...but then hesitated...

...because there were still a few important things to consider.

Okay, I told myself; this is going to be very difficult for her; and so, no matter what, remember the following:

1\. Be patient.  
2\. Be a good listener.  
3\. The second she's finished talking about, well, whatever it is, give her the present you bought. That way, even if she's upset and telling you was hard, the session will still end on a positive note.

I reviewed these instructions one last time, carefully committing each to memory. Finally, satisfied, I took a moment to collect myself, and then I opened the band closet door. 

As expected, Emma was waiting on the other side of it, in the center of the room.

“Hi,” I said in my most casual tone of voice (no need to scare her by acting enthusiastic).

“Hi.”

I took my time locking the door and setting my backpack on the floor near it, directly next to hers. Then I stood back up, turned, and looked at her.

She managed a smile.

Okay, I thought. So far, so good.

Crossing to where she waited, I smiled back and, wrapping my arms around her, pulled her into a hug...

...and, two seconds later, her entire body started to tremble.

Violently.

I leaned back and looked at her face. 

She clearly was terrified at what was about to happen.

And, due to the expression on my own face, she knew that I knew it.

Laying a hand against her cheek, I said, quietly, “It's all right; there's no hurry at all.”

Immediately she dropped her gaze to the floor and shook her head.

I pulled her closer. “Emma, I promise. There's absolutely no hurry, okay?” I repeated...

...and then, I waited in silence until, finally, she nodded slightly.

Leaning forward, I planted a kiss on her forehead and added, “Let's not even think about that right now. Let's talk about other things instead.”

To my relief, she nodded again.

I let go of her and, taking a step back (so she wouldn't feel crowded) looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to take control the conversation.

But she didn't.

Instead she just stood there, staring and still trembling.

I continued to wait in silence until she spoke - and eventually she did - but instead of actually picking a subject, she asked, “Like what?”

I decided to go with the first thing that came to mind: “Well, like how much I missed you yesterday,” I said with smile.

Apparently forgetting her fear for the moment, she asked, “What happened? Didn't you and Kaylie have a good time?”

With a rueful smile, I replied, “Actually, to make a loooong story short, she ended up in detention; and so, I ended up at the mall alone.”

She looked at me sympathetically and said, “I'm sorry that you didn't enjoy yourself.”

“Well, lunch was pretty good; so at least the trip wasn't a total loss,” I replied with a philosophical shrug.

This was followed by a long stretch of silence and, since she wasn't contributing to the conversation, I asked, “What about you? Did you finish the basement?”

“Yes.”

Hmm...not much to go on. 

Still, I realized that that this was due to her fear of what was coming, so I decided to pick up the slack and added, “Grandparents store all kinds of unusual stuff in their basements; so, did you find anything interesting down there while you were cleaning it?”

She thought this over for a few seconds, then replied, “I'm not sure. My mind was elsewhere...”

Convinced that she was referring to our upcoming conversation, which I didn't want to get into yet, I just nodded.

Seconds later, she stunned me by adding, “...because I was way too busy thinking about you...the entire time.”

After recovering, I said, “Y-you were?”

She nodded, hesitated for a few seconds, and then said, “I've missed you Alyssa...so much...ever since Friday afternoon.”

Touched by her words, and the wistful way she said them, I replied, “Really? How much?”

Taking a step forward, she flung her arms around me, hugging me hard...

...and it happened so suddenly (and painfully) that, without meaning to, I yelped.

Loudly.

Immediately, she let go of me.

“Oh, God!” she gasped. “Oh, God, I'm so sorry!”

Even though it hurt like hell, I said, “It's okay.”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, it's not!” she insisted. “I didn't realize that...are you still sore from painting?”

Deciding to go with full disclosure, I admitted, “I know; I'm as surprised as you are. It's been, what, four days, so you'd think I'd be feeling better by now.; but I'm still all achy. I guess it's because I used my muscles in ways I never have before...and for more than twelve hours.”

Emma nodded soberly; but seconds later, she lifted her eyes upward and asked, jokingly, “Well, what about your hair? Does that still hurt, too?”

I managed a smile, then said, “I think my hair will recover. As for the rest of me, well, I'm not so sure.”

She took another step forward and, reaching up, tentatively touched it with both hands, and then slid her fingers into it. 

When I didn't flinch, she nodded and said, “Yes, it seems to be a little better. I just wish that the rest of you was, too.”

“Hopefully, it will be soon,” I replied...

...and then, leaning forward, I added, “In the meantime, do you think you can help me forget...a little?”

Seconds later, her lips were on mine. 

From the way she was kissing me, it was obvious she still was still nervous; and so, I did my best to help her forget, too: to forget what was coming, over in the corner, in just a few minutes. Well, at least, to forget a little.

A moment later, I felt her hands move again. Sliding them further into my hair, her fingertips soon made contact with my scalp...

...and then, to my surprise, she began to very gently press her fingers against it - not all of them at the same time - but by alternating her fingers, almost as if she was barely pressing down on piano keys, while she played it.

And it felt incredible.

Her lips soon left mine, but her fingers kept moving, all over my scalp. 

“Thank you,” I whispered. “That feels wonderful.”

Several minutes later, she had covered the entire area, and taking another half-step forward, she began to move them downward, toward my neck.

Due to the heavily-starched (thanks, Mom!) shirt I was wearing, she had to do a bit of maneuvering to get her right hand inside the collar, but she soon figured it out and continued moving her fingers.

“Oh, Emma,” I breathed, “you have no idea how nice that feels!”

Leaning forward, I kissed her. Seconds later, to my surprise/relief, I felt my neck muscles start to relax a little; and, to convey my appreciation, I ran my hands up and down her arms and then leaned in for another kiss.

I began to stretch my neck, tentatively, in all directions, and realized that it actually felt somewhat better. Encouraged by my relieved smile, Emma removed her fingers from under my shirt collar, and then rested both of her hands against the backs of my shoulders, intending to work on those next.

Unfortunately, again, my starched shirt was in the way. Still, she tried her best, but we both soon realized that it wasn't working very well at all....

...and so, I reached behind me and, taking her right hand in my left, moved it down and around to the front of my body. Letting go of her for a moment, I pulled out the left-hand side of my shirt tail and, after a moment's hesitation, wrapped her hand around it.

“Please?” I asked.

She hesitated, but only for a few seconds, and then, with a nod, Emma reached down with both hands and pulled my entire shirt tail out, all the way around; and then, she reached around my back again.

Fortunately, it was an over-sized shirt, and so baggy that she was able to slide both of her hands up inside it easily.

All the way up to my shoulders.

And then, slowly and deliberately, she began moving her fingertips again, finding/removing the knots...

...while I reveled at the incredible feeling of her hands on my bare back for the first time.

Due to the slightly awkward way they were moving, it was obvious that she had never done this before; but I could also tell that she instinctively had a knack for it; stopping at each knot she encountered and working on it until it flattened out. She was so gentle the entire time, like she was afraid that I would break; and it was so endearing. 

Once she'd finished with my shoulders, her hands began moving gradually lower and lower, down my back, finding and then removing each and every sore spot...

...until they encountered resistance, not from my muscles themselves, but from the top of my high-waisted jeans.

After trying for a moment, she seemed to give up and began sliding her hands up and down, caressing my back, and I knew that the session was about to end.

I also knew that I didn't want it to.

And so, with my heart pounding, I reached around behind me and took hold of her hands again...

...both of them this time...

...and then, I moved them around to the front of my body...

...right onto the button of my jeans.

“Please?” I whispered.

“Does your lower back hurt, too?” she asked.

I nodded.

She hesitated for a long moment but, finally, she unbuttoned it...

...and then, after an even longer hesitation, she reached for my zipper and, as I held my breath...

...she pulled it down.

Emma reached around me again, and, I felt an indescribable thrill as her hands slid down inside my high waistband and began, slowly and carefully, working the kinks out of my lower back. 

I bent forward a little, to make it easier for her to reach them. It felt so wonderful that it was becoming difficult to think clearly; but several minutes later I realized that, for the first time in days, I felt almost pain-free.

After a few more minutes, she seemed satisfied; and then, as before, she started sliding her hands up and down my back...

...and my heart sank, because I knew the session was winding down...

...and I had no idea when – or even if – there would ever be another one.

But I was aware of one thing: that I still did not want this one to end! All I knew is that it felt wonderful, and that I desperately needed physical contact. After an entire Saturday of hard labor, without so much as a thank you, even; I was feeling decidedly love-starved. 

And so, as Emma's hands drifted lower, on one of the downswings, I reached around behind me and, taking hold of both her wrists...

...and while not daring to breathe...

...I slowly, yet deliberately, slid her hands down inside the back of my jeans...

...far down inside..

...as far as they would go...

...and then, with the palms of my hands flat against the backs of hers...

...I pressed her own palms against my backside.

Right on top of the brand new, peach-colored silk panties I'd bought at the mall yesterday.

Both of us froze.

I waited in silence, fearful that she'd yell at me, shove me away, and then storm out the door...

...but she didn't...

...and then, to my eternal shame, I began to beg. 

“Please, Emma? Just for a minute...please?”

She stood, motionless, not responding in any way, and so, unsure if she knew exactly what I wanted, I used my hands to slide hers up and down (easier said than done, because there wasn't a lot of room in there for two pairs of hands). Still, I continued, moving her hands up and down my backside, over and over until, nearly a minute later, and terrified at her impending response, I forced myself to let go of her hands...

...and then waited...

...for what felt forever...

...until, finally and awkwardly, she began to caress me.

And I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, whispering, “Oh, Emma, that feels so nice!”

No response.

I turned my ear toward her, hoping to hear some sort of excitement, in the form of accelerated breathing, but, to my disappointment, I couldn't detect any change.

But still, she wasn't complaining or pulling away, and so, relieved, I closed my eyes...

...and let myself feel it.

It was a thousand times better than my most vivid fantasy of it. The real thing was incredible; and I gasped softly as I felt the first tiny twitch between my legs.

Seconds later, and completely unexpectedly, I felt a massive jolt, and my pelvis jerked forward violently with my first contraction.

She felt it too...and froze.

“Emma, I'm sorry!” I whispered, “You don't know how wonderful this feels. Please don't stop!”

She hesitated.

“Emma, please! Only for a couple of minutes!”

She continued to hesitate. 

“Please?!? Only for a couple of minutes...and I swear I won't ask for anything more!”

No response.

Now near tears, I repeated, “Emma, please! I won't ask for anything more than this...I swear!”

Seconds later, her hands resumed moving again, and, highly relieved, I sneaked a glance over at her face.

Her eyes were closed, but there was no mistaking her expression.

She was not enjoying it.

And then, instead of doing the right thing (stopping her and then apologizing profusely), I deliberately ignored my guilt and decided that, instead, I wanted reassurance.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I said, in a low voice, ”Tell me how this feels. Are you enjoying it?”

Her hands were still moving but, without looking at me, she hesitated and then answered, “I...enjoy all of the time we spend together.”

“Wrong answer, Emma!” my mind screamed. “Way too vague! Way too ambiguous!”

Turning my head, I sneaked another look at her face...

...and there was no question as to what I saw on it.

She clearly was unhappy. Seconds later, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against my left shoulder.

And, again, I chose to close my eyes, both literally and figuratively, and turn my focus back toward my my own compelling needs; marveling at the way Emma's hands felt, sliding over my silk-covered backside; and realizing, again, that it was a thousand times better than in my imagination.

And so, pressing my trembling body against the warmth of hers, I gave myself over to it.

Fully. 

Suddenly, without warning, my hips jolted forward and upward again, as another violent shock ripped through the lower half of my body.

And, again, she froze.

“No, please!” I whispered. “Please don't stop! This feels so good!”

She hesitated.

“Please, Emma,” I whispered “I love this...so much!”

No response.

“Please don't stop, Emma...please?!?” I sobbed.

Nearly half a minute passed but then, without comment, she began moving her hands again.

My entire body felt so alive, and the area between my legs now felt so swollen, and so sensitive, that I swear I could feel my heartbeat in it.

And, seconds later, I gasped softly as I felt the first dribble of wetness leaking out of me and into my panties. Now breathing heavily, I clung to Emma tightly, arching my body back, eagerly anticipating the next contraction. 

Realizing that I wanted her to enjoy it, too, I turned my ear toward her face, listening carefully for a change in her breathing

Unfortunately, there wasn't any.

Still hopeful, I began caressing her upper back, eventually letting my right hand casually come to rest over her heart.

Nothing.

There was absolutely no change in her body or breathing...

...and, suddenly, I desperately wanted her to feel it, too. 

And so, instead of doing the right thing (stopping her and apologizing profusely), I, again deliberately ignored my guilt and attempted to justify what was happening...and the selfish way in which I was allowing it to.

Of course her body wasn't responding like mine was, I 'reasoned'.

Because what's happening is entirely one-sided.

And I need to do something about that.

Right now. 

“Emma,” I whispered, “I want you to see how incredible this feels. Let me show you.”

No response.

But I wasn't about to give up.

“I want you to see,” I repeated, and then, reaching around to the front of her body...

...and taking a half step back...

...I dropped my trembling right hand onto her belt buckle.

And then, I hesitated, steeling myself for her to grab my wrist...which would be the end of it. After all, no means no...

...but she didn't.

Nor did she tell me to stop.

And then, instead of doing the right thing and actually asking permission...

...I told myself that silence equals consent...

…and unbuckled her belt.

And then opened her button.

And then her zipper.

And then, very, very slowly, I pushed open the front of her khakis.

Reaching behind her, I pulled them away from her lower back...

...and then, with my head spinning and my heart pounding...

...I very slowly slid my right hand down inside them.

The first thing my palm encountered was a wide elastic waistband and below it, an expanse of cotton that extended downward, ending abruptly at the bottom of her butt. Seconds later, I sneaked a peek, both front and back. They looked almost exactly like boys briefs (sweatshirt gray, in case you're wondering), but may have been made for girls because I didn't see any type of fly in the front.

And then, my curiosity assuaged, and since she wasn't trying to stop me, I very gently slid both of my hands down into her pants, as far as I could, and then began to move them up and down over her backside...not in a seductive way, but gently caressing, wanting her to see how incredible it felt, all while listening to her for signs of arousal.

Unfortunately, three were none.

Hoping to encourage some, I whispered, “I just want to help you feel nice.”

But, while her hands continued to move, she made no response. 

It all felt so amazing: my hands on her, her hands on me, and how wet I was becoming, that I didn't want any of it to stop; and so, I silently/selfishly tried, again, to justify everything that was happening.

Of course she's scared right now, I thought. Because of the way people treat her, on a daily basis, it's hard for her to let her guard down.

But that doesn't mean she's not enjoying this...she's just too afraid to tell me.

If she wanted any/all of this to stop, she'd definitely have said so by now, or grabbed my hands.

But she hasn't.

Just a few more minutes of this, and I'm definitely going to feel her body begin to respond, exactly the way mine is now.

And, once she sees how incredible it feels, she's going to love it.

Leaning forward, I kissed her cheek and then, leaning back, craned my neck and looked at her face again..

As before, her eyes were closed...but there was no doubt that, clearly, she wasn't enjoying it.

Not any of it.

And that was not acceptable to me; because I desperately wanted her to. 

Unfortunately, I wasn't sure how to go about making it happen; and so, I took a deep breath, leaned over to her ear, and said, in a low voice, “Emma, I want you to enjoy this, too, as much as I am; so please show me with your hands what I can do with mine to make you feel as wonderful as I do right now.”

And then, I waited.

Wondering what she wanted.

Less than a minute later, I found out exactly what that was...

...as her hands stilled...

...and then left my backside...

...and then moved around to the front of me...

...and then, after a moment's hesitation, buttoned and zipped me up.

I was devastated. 

Lowering my gaze, I stood staring at the area of floor between our feet, utterly heartbroken and near tears...because what I so desperately needed was not going at all as I wanted.

Seconds later, I felt her eyes on me.

Still staring at the floor, I tried to speak, but all I could say was, “Emma.” I couldn't continue, as I tried – and failed - to find words to convey my utter disappointment.

She didn't move or answer me, and, now struggling not to cry, I shook my head and, heartbroken, repeated, in a weird, strangled voice, “Emma!”

After a moment of silence, I heard her gasp...

...and seconds later, her hands were at my waist again.

“I-I'm sorry! Please don't be mad at me!” she begged, as she opened my button and unzipped me again.

I shook my head. “Emma...”

Seconds later, her hands were back inside my jeans, pressed against my backside, and sounding near tears herself, she begged, “Please, Alyssa, don't be mad at me...please!”

And, suddenly, I became fully aware of what was happening: she was terrified. 

Terrified that I'll be mad at her for stopping...and that I already am...so scared that she's going to continue doing something she doesn't want to do.

And then, instead of correcting her and apologizing, I selfishly did one of the most despicable things of my entire life.

I let her believe it.

Because of how desperately I wanted her to continue touching me.

Seconds later, she began moving her hands again, over my backside...

...and, as I resumed sliding my hands over hers again, I said (again) in a shaky voice, “Just for a couple of minutes more, and I promise you that we'll stop...and I swear I won't ask you to do anything else.”

Silence. 

“Emma, I swear I'm not going to ask you to do anything else,” I repeated. “Do you believe me?”

A few seconds later, she nodded slowly...

...and, now way beyond selfish, I asked, “Well, then, will you help me pull them down?”

I clearly saw how unhappy she looked before turning her head away from me, but still, she took hold of the waistband of my jeans and slowly pushed them down.

All the way to my knees.

A moment later, I pushed her baggy khakis past her hips...

...and, a second later, they quickly slid down her legs on their own, then hit the floor with a soft thud, and lay pooled around her ankles.

She started moving her hands again, and, seconds later, I felt my next sharp contraction. Wanting her to feel it, too, I pressed against her, gasping softly as the waves of it passed out of my body and into hers. 

Tilting my head back, I began moving my body against hers, not grinding per se, but in an undulating way. “Please don't stop, I gasped softly, “I love this...so much!”

But she obviously wasn't loving it, and so, with both of my hands flat against her backside, I leaned forward, pulling her to me while pressing the front of my hips against hers.

Tightly.

Hoping that she'd enjoy the way it felt.

She didn't move away...but it was obvious that she didn't.

And so, I started moving my hands again, more seductively this time...

...but, instead of responding, she turned her head away from me and rested it, unhappily, on my shoulder.

Her hands now had more room to move, yet she still caressed me awkwardly. I was well aware how she felt but, now absolutely desperate for her to enjoy it, I slid my hands over to the sides, onto her hips...

...and, twisting my body slightly to my left...

...drew her to me...

...and then, positioning my right hip between her legs...

...and pulling her forward, and then upward, and then downward...

...I pressed her firmly against it.

And, at that moment, we both gasped...

...not from passion...

...but because we heard the doorknob rattle!

Seconds later, with my heart in my throat, I heard two voices outside.

Two adult male voices 

“That's weird,” one of them said, “This door is always unlocked.”

“I can come back later,” the other one replied.

“No, I'll have it open in a second,” the first one said, and, seconds later...

...and to my horror...

...I heard the unmistakable jangle of a ring of keys.

“So,” the first one continued, “how many herald angels will be in the Easter pageant?”

“Three.”

“Well, marching band is over for the winter, so I guess we can let you borrow three trumpets. Just make sure we get them back afterward.”

“Of course,” the second one said, then added, “You'll be all day finding the right key with that collection.”

“Don't worry; I have a master key that opens every door on the second floor. It's right here.”

At this, Emma bent down and began frantically trying to pull her pants up.

But she couldn't. 

I looked down at the floor and soon realized why: Due to taking that step forward, my left foot was now planted firmly on the crotch of her khakis. I tried to step off them, but my shoe was tangled up in them and I couldn't. At the same time, I reached down and began fumbling with my own pants as Emma continued to struggle with hers, both of us unaware of how much noise we were making.

We both stopped when the first voice on the other side of the door asked, “Did you hear something..inside there?”

“Like what?” the second one asked.

“I'm not sure...but it sounded like scuffling.”

“You mean like...rats?”

At this, my hands left my jeans, and I clung to Emma tightly.

Because, if there's one thing I'm absolutely terrified of, it's rats! 

A moment later, I realized (we both did) that it was us he'd heard; and we both stood there, frozen, terrified to make any more noise by moving...

...until, a second later, we heard a the sound of a key sliding into the door lock.

Immediately, Emma panicked. Her arm was a blur as it shot past my shoulder and, a second later, she turned the lights out...plunging the room into total darkness...

...which was a serious problem; partly because my jeans, which were still around my knees, had somehow twisted to one side...

...and I couldn't see which one, so I couldn't straighten them out and pull them up!

A second later, we heard the knob turn...

...and then stop...

...because the door won't open.

“Oops,” the first man said, “wrong key. This one's for the First Floor; but the other one's right here.”

I couldn't see Emma but could tell that she was now fumbling wildly. I tried to disentangle my foot from her pants, but couldn't see to do it; and was afraid to try to jerk it free for fear of falling over backwards.

A second later, the first man said, “Crap, it's not here. You know, I let Carl borrow these this morning, and he must have taken it off...”

And I heaved a sigh of relief...

...which then turned to a gasp as he continued, “...but don't worry; he's having coffee in the teacher's lounge.”

(Which I realized, horrified, was across the hall and three doors down!)

“Let's go get it,” the other man replied; and, seconds later, I heard their footsteps recede...

...and realized, terrified, that Emma and I needed to get the hell out of there...

...and that we had less than twenty seconds!

Frantically fumbling behind me, I managed to turn the lights on.

Seconds later, I dragged my pants up while Emma yanked up her own...

...and then, snatching our backpacks, we burst out of the band closet's door; and then, turning to my left and she to her right, tore down the hall in opposite directions.


	5. Chapter 5

Of all the sights and sounds I remember from that day, the most vivid will always be the rattling of Emma's still-open brass belt buckle as she sprinted away from me.

With my heart pounding against my rib cage and my feet pounding against the linoleum, I rushed down the hall in the other direction; and then around a corner, down another hall, and up a short flight of stairs...

...while ignoring numerous stares... 

...because I was desperate to reach the East Wing...

...and the solitude of my own little safe haven; one that not even Emma knows about...

...while praying fervently, the entire time, that it would be available.

Finally, I reached the girls bathroom. 

Flinging the door open, I sprinted past the seven or eight girls yacking at each other in front of the sinks...

...as I tore, at breakneck speed, down the line of stalls...

...finally skidding to a halt in front of the one all the way down at the far end; while thanking God that it was empty!

The very last bathroom stall...

...my own personal sanctuary!

With a tiled wall on one side, and a perpetually-out-of-order stall on the other side, it was my private oasis, where I could be completely alone with myself and my thoughts; without having to deal with some idiot on the other side of the partition fighting on the phone with her boyfriend; or, worse, wanting to start a conversation with me. This made it the perfect spot in which to decompress, and to psych myself up before major events (such as tests), both of which I did on a frequent basis. Oh, also, the light bulb directly above it was burned out, and I deeply appreciated the semi-gloom, which only enhanced its overall ambiance.

Hurriedly locking myself in, I threw my backpack up onto the hook at the top of the door, flung myself down onto the seat, and then, wrapping both arms around my midsection, began rocking forward and backward, while silently mouthing, “Oh my god-oh my god-oh my god-oh my god-oh my god-”

...a chant which became increasingly frenzied as the full reality of what just happened hit me...

...and I am NOT referring to the fact that we almost got caught!

Even though my thoughts were spiraling out of control, one fact was crystal clear: I can't deal with this right now; not any of it! Somehow I have to force my attention elsewhere – anywhere - until I get home!

Or I'm going to lose my mind completely!

Now shaking violently, I buried my face in my hands.

I have no idea how long I sat like that; but, eventually, I became aware of the complete silence outside my door...

...and heaved a sigh of relief. 

They left!

All of them!

And I realized that, even though I absolutely didn't want to, it was now time to get out of there...while the coast was clear!. 

Taking a shaky breath, I got to my feet.

Since I'd left the band closet in such a hurry, my shirt tail was still hanging out. I stuffed it into my pants hastily, grabbed my backpack, opened the door...

...and then, thankful to escape without facing interrogation, I emerged...

…to see a long line of slack-jawed girls staring at me in bewildered silence.

Now unnerved, yet doing my best to act nonchalant, I headed over to the nearest sink and, bending forward, began to wash my hands.

Immediately, the girls surrounded me in a tight semi-circle, and stood looking at me expectantly; and, with a sinking heart, I became very aware that I wasn't going to be allowed to leave without an explanation.

But...what could I tell them? 

Nothing?

No way...the speculation and ensuing rumors would be horrific!

And I certainly couldn't tell them the truth.

Which left me with only one option: I had to lie.

But...what to say? What reason could I possibly have to come flying into the bathroom and then careen wildly into a stall?

That I needed to barf? 

No, they'd never believe that...because there would have been distinct, accompanying sound effects.

Well, what other reasons could there be?

Unfortunately, I could think of only one.

Turning away from the sink, I took a deep breath and then, not making direct eye contact with any of them, I announced, “My pad was soaked.”

In unison, eight pairs of eyes immediately dropped to my crotch.

Two seconds later, one of the girls blurted out, “Wow, I'm sorry you didn't make it in time!”

At this declaration, I turned back to the mirror and discovered, to my horror, that my dark jeans had a much darker (and very wide) wet spot across their lower front...which also extended far back between my legs! 

Realizing/regretting her inadvertent rudeness, she immediately added, “Don't worry; it's not that noticeable.”

The others quickly murmured their assent, but I knew they were just trying to be kind...

...because it was very, very noticeable!

And I didn't have anything to change into!!

And the school day was only half over!!!

Noticing how rattled I looked, one of the other girls offered, “Do you need a clean pad? I have one in my locker.”

I shook my head, mumbling, “No, thanks. I took care of it.”

At this, they finally (and thankfully) dispersed; and, with a sigh of relief, I looked down at my watch...

...and my heart sank. In less than four minutes, I had to be in my next class...leaving me no time to even try to mop up a little.

As I hurried down the hallway, another horrifying thought hit me: how am I ever going to hide this mess during P.E. class?

Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea.

Enduring an already-unpleasant class (algebra) is even worse when you're sitting in a deep puddle of slippery wetness; especially when you're trying your hardest not to focus on how it occurred in first place.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the bell rang. 

As I headed down the hallway, en route to the gym, more than half of the students I encountered immediately glanced downward...

...and then blatantly stared...

...while I silently cursed every single one of those bathroom bitches for telling the entire world!

When I arrived at the gym, an unexpected - yet very pleasant - surprise awaited me: My P.E. class was canceled! One of our local councilmen had reserved the space for an emergency Town Hall meeting, leaving me (and my classmates) with a choice: Spend an hour listening to that guy yack about the city's huge budget deficit OR have another study hall.

I chose the latter and headed back to the library, where I slunk into a seat in the far corner and bent way over my books, in a determined (and, thank God, successful) attempt to avoid unwanted attention.

On the school bus, I sat with my backpack held - with white-knuckled tightness - against my lap as camouflage; while praying the entire trip that no one would ask why. Fortunately, there had been a fistfight - involving numerous participants - in chem lab during final period, and most of the conversation around me was centered on obsessively recounting the sordid details of that.

Twenty minutes later, I sprinted toward my house; noticing, as I ran up the driveway, that Mom's car was nowhere in sight.

Thank God!

I can actually get cleaned up and changed, and she'll be none the wiser! 

I closed the door behind me and had made it halfway to the staircase when I heard, “Alyssa, come here.”

Looking over my shoulder, I was stunned to see Mom, sitting in one of the upholstered wing chairs opposite our couch.

And she was staring at me expectantly.

However, due to the huge wet spot on my jeans, I didn't dare turn around.

“Alyssa? she repeated.

“Yeah, in a minute,” I replied.

“No,” she insisted. “Right now.”

Still, I hesitated.

“Don't make me come over to you!” she warned...

...and I realized that I had no other option.

Cringing, I turned and approached the chair, very aware of two facts:

1\. Her eye line is mere inches above my crotch.  
2\. If she looks down, I'm dead.

I can't even use the period excuse, because she knows exactly when I have it...and that it isn't this week!

Desperately trying to appear composed/casual, I stopped directly in front of her chair...

...expecting the worst. I knew for a fact there's no way this conversation is going to end well; because, you know how, when they're thinking, most people look up? Well, my mother, when she's thinking, looks down!

To my surprise, instead of immediately launching into one of her usual 90+ minute complaint-fests, she just sat, staring at me in silence.

Realizing that I needed to get away from her, ASAP, I decided that the best tactic would be to start the ball rolling myself.

“Wh-where's the car?” I asked. 

“Well,” she began, “when I started it this morning, it made an odd grinding noise; so I drove straight to the repair center and then took a taxi to Roger's office. The mechanic called around lunch time and said it needed a new starter.”

I nodded.

“So,” she continued, “Roger's coming by to pick me up in a few minutes, and then we're going to swing by the health complex site for a bit, and then he's going to take me to pick up the car; but I should be back in a little less than two hours. When I do, we'll have dinner, and then I have to go out again for the evening. Anyway, make sure you're ready for dinner by then.”

Seconds later, a car horn honked...

...and, without another word, Mom got up and left.

And I stood there...stunned.

How had I not been busted? 

How did she not notice that I have an actual swamp between my legs?

Did the damned planets somehow (mistakenly, I'm sure) line up in my favor? Or was the universe just trying to be momentarily kind to me...because something far worse is about to happen? You know, like when your co-workers know you're about to get fired, so they're extra nice to you?

I had no idea.

Seconds later, I ran upstairs to the bathroom and began to frantically peel off my clothes.

I spent more than thirty minutes in the shower, exfoliating the hell out of every inch of myself, but it did nothing to diminish how filthy I felt inside.

Exiting the bathtub, I approached the bathroom mirror. Wiping the fog off it with a towel, I then picked up my hairbrush...but instead of using it, I just stood, staring at myself...

...for I don't know how long...

...until, suddenly, I flung my brush down and, grabbing onto the sides of the sink with both hands, leaned forward, until my nose was only an inch from the mirror...

...and screamed, “What the hell did you do?!?

“She wasn't enjoying it; and she tried to stop it!

“She wanted to say no to you, but she was too scared! Too scared that you'd be furious with her, and so, she kept going...and you let her! That wasn't consent! It was...well, I'm not sure what it was, but it was wrong!

“Even worse, you did this while she was feeling completely vulnerable! You promised yesterday that you were going to hold her! And that she'd feel safe enough to confide in you! And now...she'll never trust you again!”

And then, equally/utterly disgusted and distraught, I broke a solemn promise...

...one that I'd made to myself when I was very, very young...

...and said the one word I swore I never would.

“I fucking hate you! 

“I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!

“How could you do something like that?!? She was terrified to tell you what she's dealing with, yet she showed up and was going to tell you anyway...because she trusted you! 

And you totally fucked it up! 

You've fucking fucked up everything, you f-f-fucking-”

Letting go of the sink, I sank onto the floor.

Twenty minutes later, I was still sitting there, completely naked, with my face on top of my bent knees, crying my eyes out.

I had ruined everything. 

And I knew it.

And now, I had to face the consequences...whatever they were.

I didn't even bother trying to strategize. Because, I realized, I don't deserve a favorable outcome. 

I deserve every single horrible thing that's about to happen to me!

Still, I have to apologize to her - or at least attempt to - because she might not even want to hear it. And so, hopefully she'll show up at the band closet tomorrow and-wait, what am I saying? This can't wait until tomorrow...I have to call her.

Right now.

But I can't do that, either. Apologizing over the phone is the coward's way out!

But, then again, this can't wait until tomorrow!

No! I am NOT going to hide behind my phone! This needs to be done face-to-

No! You're not going to wait! It's not fair to Emma! She's probably at home right now, crying, scared, and confused, because of what you did to her!

You have to call her!

But then again...

I wrestled with this problem for the next half hour; but, in the end, the mental image of Emma lying on her bed, alone and in tears, won out...

...and I realized that this can't wait.

Hurrying down the hall to my room, I got dressed quickly and then, sitting down on the edge of my bed, picked up my phone.

I held it for a very long time; but finally, I forced myself to dial her number.

As it rang, my heart was pounding. Would she even pick up when she saw who was calling?

Finally, on the seventh ring, she did. But, instead of hearing her voice, there was nothing but silence...

...which stretched on between us, for nearly a minute until, finally, I broke it.

“I'm...not very proud of my behavior.”

This was met by another stretch of silence on her end; but, eventually, I heard her take a shaky breath.

More silence.

“Emma, I'm so sorry!”

Finally she said, very slowly, “You...you had no way of knowing those guys would show up.”

And, because of the way she said it...

...not blaming me in the least...

...for any of it...

...I lost what little composure I had.

“That's not what I mean!” I sobbed. “I mean the disgusting way I act- b-but, before I go any further, I want to say that I'm n-not being a coward by calling you! Tomorrow, I promise that I'm also going to apologize the right way...in person-

I paused, then added, “...if you'll l-let m-me!”

No reply.

“It's just that...” I continued, “...it's just that, I didn't w-want you to have to wait until then to know h-how badly I-oh, shit! She's back early!” I finished, as I heard Mom call my name from the foot of the stairs.

Silence.

“Your mother?” Emma finally asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Emma, I-”

“It's all right,” she said. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'll be there. I promise,” she replied.

Ten minutes and a half bottle of eye drops later, I slid into my dining room chair...directly opposite Mom...filled with an overwhelming sense of dread.

Would she be able to sense that something about me was...different now? That, earlier today, I'd been indulging my virgin body's physical urges...with a girl?!?

And not just any girl?!?

Honestly, I was terrified. Based on extensive, previous experience, I knew for a fact that if she started to grill me about why I seemed 'different', I'd never be able to talk my way out of it, nor to keep what had happened from her.

Not any of it.

And then, after finding out what I did...

...every last detail...

...and with whom...

...there's no telling what she might do to me!

Truth be told, on top of all of that I was also internally freaking out...over what the consequences of my selfish and depraved actions were going to be tomorrow.

Mercifully, Mom's mind seemed to be elsewhere, and we ate in near-silence.

An hour later, back in my room, I tried to evaluate my earlier phone conversation with Emma.

She had barely spoken, so I didn't have much to go on; but, suddenly, I became very aware of one thing: her tone of voice.

It hadn't sounded angry.

It hadn't sounded scared.

It hadn't sounded sad.

It had sounded...flat.

And that scared the shit out of me.

A flat voice...such as one of someone who has just made a serious, final decision about something; and was now going to, unemotionally, carry through on it.

And that could only mean one thing:

“No!!! Not that!” My mind screamed. “Please, God, not tha-”

“Shut the fuck up!” I ordered myself. “You have no right to expect anything from her now! Whatever happens tomorrow will be entirely your own fault, and you're going to have to find some way to deal with it!”

Well aware that there was no way out, I desperately wanted to hide from the world...at least for the next few hours. Getting up off the bed, I pulled the covers down and crawled under them; and then, curling up into a ball on my left side, I began to rock back and forth.

It did nothing to console me.

Reaching over, I rested a trembling hand on Emmapillow...

...who, despite how warm the room was, felt ice cold.

Letting go of her, I rolled over onto my back and closed my eyes.

Based on my current insanely-high level of stress, I thought I'd be battling insomnia all night; but, to my surprise, I fell asleep quickly.

However, due to the nightmare that followed, I'd much rather have dealt with the insomnia:

I found myself standing on a sidewalk, with Emma standing directly in front of me. The sidewalk extended behind her, clearly visible, for as far as my eyes could see...

...but I couldn't see any houses or other buildings on either side of the street; only two massive banks of steel-gray fog.

Next, I listened for traffic noises.

There were none.

Was I on a city street? I wondered. Or in a residential neighborhood?

There was no way of knowing. 

I turned my attention back to Emma, who stood, looking at me expectantly...but, due to her totally flat expression, I had no idea what she wanted.

Still, I knew I had to say something, and I decided to tell her I love her...

...but, when I opened my mouth, no sound came out.

And so, I tried again.

Silence.

And so, I tried yet again.

Total silence.

Now starting to panic, I opened my mouth again and, screwing up every ounce of my power, tried to roar the words.

Utter silence. 

Seemingly unaware of my struggle, Emma raised her right arm and extended her hand toward me...

...but I couldn't grasp it, because both of my arms, and the rest of my entire body, were completely paralyzed. 

And I began to struggle violently against it.

For what seemed an eternity.

Finally, as I wrestled, and failed, to touch Emma, her expression suddenly changed: from one of expectation to one of resignation.

Seconds later, she withdrew her hand; and reached downward...

...and, when she raised it again, I saw – to my horror – that it was holding a suitcase.

I now began to struggle, with everything I had in me, but both my body and my voice were completely frozen and useless.

And then, with one final glance, Emma turned her back on me and began to walk.

And at that moment, I tried desperately to see what was on either side of the street: signs, houses, people, anything that would tell me where I was, so I would know where to begin searching for her.

But there was nothing except fog.

Now frantic, I tried to listen for the sound of cars passing by, so I could beg one of the drivers to take me with them, so I could find her again.

Complete silence.

Horrified and helpless, all I could do was watch her recede into the distance, to where the two banks of fog met on the sidewalk's horizon; until, with a sudden and unexpected glint of sunlight on her blonde hair, she disappeared...

...and my eyes flew open...

...to find myself lying on my right side, which I never do.

As I lay there, gasping for breath, I could think of only one thing: that what I'd just endured was a harbinger of what's to come tomorrow.

You don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out that dream: she's going to leave me, and there's absolutely nothing I can say or do to stop her.

Shaking violently, I immediately reached behind me for Emmapillow. No matter how cold she was, I desperately needed her in my arms right now.

But my hand closed on empty air.

Rolling over onto my left side, I saw that she wasn't on the bed at all.

Leaning over its edge, I looked down, directly next to the bed.

Not there, either.

Finally, in the sliver of moonlight radiating between my curtains, I saw her: all the way across my bedroom, on the floor, near the far wall...

...almost fifteen feet away.

And, to this day, I have no idea how she got there.


	6. Chapter 6

I spent third period study hall in a steadily-increasing state of alarm, as the moment I'd have to face Emma crept ever closer. By the time class ended, I was so completely freaked out that I knew the only way I was going to get down the hall to the band closet was to pretend that everything is normal: that it's just another day, and I'm hurrying there because I can't wait to see Emma's smile.

With this deliberate delusion firmly in mind, I managed to make it. 

Not allowing myself to hesitate - which I knew if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop - I immediately grabbed the knob; and then, with my head spinning and my heart hammering, I opened the door. 

As expected, Emma was standing inside, but I tried my hardest not to look at her just yet; as I was now desperate to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

I took forever about locking the door.

And then, bracing myself as best as I could...

...which wasn't very well at all...

...I turned around.

The first thing I noticed: Emma's expression is every bit as flat as her voice was last night.

Oh, God...no!

She stared at me in silence, for perhaps half a minute, then opened her mouth to speak; but then, shaking her head, she looked at the floor, then back up at me, then at the floor again; and then at me.

Finally, looking down at the floor one last time, and then up at me and taking a deep breath, she spoke. 

“Alyssa,” she said slowly, “I've had time to...to think things over; and I, well, especially after what happened yesterday, I think that it's best if you and I stop-”

At this, I burst into tears and, turning away from her, began to fumble frantically with the door knob.

I couldn't bear to hear the rest of it...I couldn't! 

It's bad enough that I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life without her – and knowing full well why I lost her - but I can't also have her final words of rejection playing in my head, non-stop, until the day I die!

Unfortunately, my eyes were so watery that I couldn't see what I was doing, and my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't even locate the lock.

As I continued to struggle, I heard her walk up behind me, and say, “I haven't finished.”

“No!” I sobbed. “I'm going now! Please don't make me listen to the rest of it!”

“You're not going anywhere until I've said it,” she declared.

“Emma, please don't-” I began...

...but, at that moment, I stopped speaking...

...as I felt her arms encircle me from behind; pinning my own arms to my sides.

Seconds later, I felt myself being hoisted up off my feet, and then turned away from the door and toward the far side of the room.

Since my arms were pinned, I couldn't make her let go of me; and so, in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to escape, I began to flail my legs.

“Emma, please don't force me to do this...please! I can't listen to this!”

“Well, you're going to,” she replied firmly, walking across the room, to the wall opposite the door, and then setting me on my feet. 

Seconds later, her hands moved up to my shaking shoulders; and, after a moment's hesitation, she turned me around to face her.

“Emma, please don't do this!” I begged again...

...but one look at her face confirmed the worst: that she had already made up her mind.

As I stood before her, cringing and shaking, she looked at me with silent resolve, for an agonizingly-long time, but finally said, “Alyssa, this is going to be difficult, for both of us; but someday we're both going to look back and know we made the right decision.”

I wanted to yell, “What do you mean 'we'?? but then realized that it was my own selfish recklessness that had brought us to this moment. 

At this point, I was too upset to think at all, let alone clearly, and so, I promptly forgot what I'd promised myself during study hall: that I wouldn't touch her...ever again. After the way I'd acted yesterday, I was well aware that I no longer had any right to...

...but I was so distraught that my promise went right out the window...

...and, hurling myself forward and throwing my arms around her, I started to bawl.

“Please, I'm so sorry! I swear it will never, ever happen again! Emma, please don't m-make me l-leave you!”

I was very aware that she wasn't hugging me back; and, heartbroken, I let go of her...

...and then, admitting to myself that all of this is entirely my fault, and I now have to face and accept the consequences, I added, “I'm sorry! I have no right to expect that, or anything else, from you. I”ll go now. I promise not to try to see or talk to you anym-m-m-.”

I was crying so hard that I couldn't finish the rest.

However, I was still forced to confront what I'd been deliberately denying since last night: that, after the disgusting way I'd behaved, I at least owed it to her to listen, while she had her rant and told me off...

...and then while she formally broke up with me; and then sent me on my way...forever. 

But, I couldn't bear to watch it, too...

...and so, looking down at the floor, I said, “G-go ahead. Tell me the rest, and I'll go.”

A moment later, to my astonishment, I felt her arms around me...

...as, sounding confused, she asked, “Who said anything about you going anywhere?”

“Y-you did! You're breaking up with me!”

She hugged me tighter. “What? I don't want you to leave.”

Stunned, I managed to get out, “Wh-what did you just say, then?”

“Nothing, actually,” she replied, “because you never let me finish.”

At that moment, I realized that she was right. 

I hadn't heard the rest, because she hadn't said it. 

I hadn't let her.

Still terrified, I threw my arms around her neck, holding on tightly and bracing myself for the worst.

“Shall I try again?” she finally asked...

...and, shaking uncontrollably, I nodded.

“Alyssa,” she said slowly, “I've had time to...to think things over; and I, well, especially after what happened yesterday, I think that it's best if you and I stop... stop being so...so afraid to communicate with each other.”

Leaning back, I stared at her, stunned, but finally managing to stammer, “Wh-wh-what?”

“I know it's more my fault then yours,” she continued, “but, it's not helping either of us, is it? There are a lot of things between us that need to be said, but haven't been. I mean, I know there are things you want to say to me...aren't there?”

I nodded, but then admitted, “I...don't know how to say those things. You'll be mad at me.”

She looked down, then back up at me and said, “What if I give you my solemn word, right now, that I won't get mad no matter what you tell me?”

I was unsure how to respond, so she continued, “Alyssa, can we please talk? And will you be completely open and honest with me? I think that, afterward, we'll both feel a lot better.”

At that point, my head was spinning. 

Is this the same Emma who's been so silent...about so many things...for so long? 

Is she really, finally, willing to talk to me now?? 

Especially after the horrible way I acted yesterday???

Is this a dream?????

Instinctively, I knew that it wasn't.

Although the entire prospect of being open with her scared the hell out of me, I leaned back and, looking into her eyes, I forced myself to answer, “Yes. I promise I will.”

At that moment, I (finally) became aware that I was touching her; and, since I'd resolved earlier not to, I let go and took a step back.

At this, Emma smiled...

...and shook her head...

...and then took a step forward

“Come here,” she said, wrapping her arms around me and pulling me close.

As I held onto her, shaking, she gave me a minute, presumably to collect my thoughts; and then, swallowing hard, she pulled me even closer and said, in an unsteady voice, “Okay. Go ahead.”

Although I was stressed that I'd had no chance to prepare for this, there was absolutely no question of where I needed to start: with an apology.

Holding onto her in order to steady myself, I began, “Emma, I'm so sorry about yesterday! I had no right to be so horribly disrespectful to...I mean, I never even talked to you about it first!”

When she didn't reply, I added, “I know! I'm a pervert! And a creep! And a degenerate! And a-”

“And a human being,” she replied.

And I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

“That's no excuse for what I did!” I insisted. “I saw you were upset! Incredibly upset...and I knew I should have stopped it; b-but still, I-”

At that moment, I stopped speaking...

...and then, even though it was none of my business, I suddenly realized that I absolutely, desperately had to know...

...and asked her, “Did you cry when you got home?”

At this, she put her head on my shoulder...

...and nodded.

And I started to bawl.

“Emma! I'm so very, very, sorry! I know I should have talked to you about it first!”

Without lifting her head from my shoulder, she asked, “Can w-we talk about it n-now?”

I nodded...

...but then hesitated, because of how awful my next confession was going to be. Still, I knew that I had to tell her, and finally said, “Since we're being honest, there's something I need to...yesterday, I wasn't mad at you...not at all! I was disappointed! But, instead of telling you that, I let you keep going!”

“Oh.”

“Emma, I swear, nothing like that will ever happen again!”

No reply...

...but, eventually, she nodded.

I leaned back and, forcing myself to look directly into her eyes, said, “I...I beg you to forgive me.”

Seconds later, she said, simply, “I do.”

I don't know how much time passed as we stood, trembling and silent, in each others arms, but finally she spoke again.

“Alyssa?”

“Y-yes?”

“What else?”

I knew what I wanted to say next, but I was too afraid. Still, I realized, she was making an effort, even though she was scared, and so I had to make one, too.

With a shaky voice, I said, “In the b-bin, I love to kiss you, but you always pull me down onto your chest, or lie on mine so I can't!”

She lifted her head from my shoulder and looked over at the bin. Next, she looked down, and then, looking the bin again, she said slowly, “It...it just felt so nice to be held; and I...thought you felt the same.”

Her tone of voice broke my heart.

And I realized, again, how selfish I had been; although this time, it wasn't totally my fault. I just hadn't thought about it in the correct context; but I knew that I needed to...right now: Emma is obviously, chronically starved for affectionate physical contact. After all, when's the last time someone actually held her? 

I'd never met her family, but my take on them: Mom & Dad: creeps for throwing her out. Grandmom: nice enough to take Emma in...but since she raised a creep (Emma's dad), he didn't seem to have grown up with much affection. Ergo, neither her parents nor her grandmother seem to have given her much, if any.

No wonder she's so desperate to lie in my arms every chance she gets!

But then again, I realized, bin kisses are incredibly important to me. 

There has to be a way to reach a compromise; one that will make us both happy.

However, I was also well aware that this is NOT the time to attempt to figure it out...and so, I made a very careful mental note to think all of that over later.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had left Emma hanging.

And, for the time being, I just said, “Okay.”

I felt her arms tighten around me, and seconds later, she said, “Come on, Alyssa; I know there's more.”

She was right...but I was absolutely terrified to tell her the rest. 

But then again, I had promised to be completely open and honest. And so, I braced myself as best I could, leaned back and looked into her eyes, and then, resolving to tell her slowly and calmly...

...I instead sobbed, “I love you s-so much; and when I tell you and you don't say it back, it h-hurts m-my heart not to hear it!”

She looked down, silent for a long time, but finally, still gazing at the floor, she said, “That's really h-hard for me.”

I nodded, even though it hurt badly. Then again, after being rejected by her own parents, plus enduring the daily hatred of our classmates, who could blame for not being able to let her guard down?

Still, my lower lip began to tremble.

“Alyssa?”

“Y-yes?”

She pulled me close again and, leaning her cheek against mine, said, “I...I promise I'm going to work on that.”

I was too busy trying not to cry to respond.

She realized this, and added, “I promise I'm going to work on that...really hard, okay?”

And, with a sniff and a nod, I replied, “Okay.”

She waited in silence.

We both knew there was more.

Finally, I tried to take courage from the positive direction things had gone so far; and, taking a very shaky breath, I continued, “Emma? I've loved the last year and a half we've spent together. I love our hugs and kisses, and everything else we've shared. It's just that...I feel like I...I w-want a little more.”

She knew exactly what I meant. 

“How...how much more?” she asked slowly...

...and I knew that I had to be completely honest with her. “M-maybe some day all of it,” I admitted. “It doesn't have to be all at once, or right away...”

My voice trailed off.

I waited for her response, but nearly a minute passed in silence.

“Emma?” 

At this, I felt her start to tremble in my arms...

...so I I asked, as gently as I possibly could, “Do you, maybe someday...w-want a little more??”

(I didn't have the nerve to ask how much more.)

She hesitated, for a very long time; but finally she nodded.

Somewhat encouraged by this, I asked, “Is...is it something that you've actually thought about?”

She nodded again.

“And...and it's something that you'd like...eventually?”

“Yes,” she replied, grabbing onto me more tightly.

I held her in silence...unsure what to say next, but finally decided that another apology was in order. “Emma, I'm sorry about yesterday...because there are two of us in this relationship, and I never even asked you.”

I felt her nod and, seconds later, her lips were on my neck...

...and, relieved, I hugged her as hard as I could.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Not that I can think of right now.”

“But, if you think of anything later, do you promise you'll tell me?”

“I promise,” I replied, finally untangling my body from hers and taking a step backward.

She stood looking at me for a very long time, deep in thought; but finally, she spoke. 

“Wait,” she replied. “there is one other thing. Come back here.”

As she pulled me close again, I sighed...

...and then gasped...

...as I felt her right hand come to rest on my backside.

At first I thought I must be mistaken, but then realized that I clearly felt the warmth of her palm through my jeans.

Still, I didn't say anything, thinking that it was just part of the hug...

...but then, to my astonishment, she started to move it up and down, unmistakably caressing me.

It took a few seconds to find my voice, but I finally asked, “Wh-wh-what are you doing?”

“Shh,” she said in a low voice, “just put your head on my shoulder.”

“Emma, no!”

“It's okay,” she replied.

“No, it's not!” I insisted.

“Yes, it is.”

“I...I don't understand...why is this happening?” I asked.

With her hand still moving, she replied, “I...just want you to see that I'm not, you know...traumatized by what happened yesterday.”

“You could have just told me,” I countered.

“Would you have believed me?”

“No,” I admitted.

Seconds later, she used her left hand to lower my head onto her shoulder, and then said, “Now, close your eyes.”

Raising my head, I protested, “Emma...I can't...we can't! You just told me, a little while ago, that you were crying yesterday because of what happened.”

“I'm...over it. I get over things quickly. I always do.”

For the record, this is 100% true. She's abused horribly at school, on a daily basis, yet always comes in the next morning, surprisingly composed, and endures it all over again.

Still, though... 

Seconds later, to my astonishment, her left hand joined her right and both of them began caressing me...

...and not nearly as awkwardly as they had yesterday...

...and my mind began reeling. 

What the hell is going on?

And why?

And what should I do?

The only thing I could think of was to keep talking to her...hoping that I could figure out what exactly was going through her mind. 

Emma?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I already told you.”

“Well, yeah, but is there any other reason?”

“I guess...it's also my way of thanking you for being so open and honest with me,” she said...

...but I still wasn't satisfied with her answer.

“Okay, but is there...any other reason?”

She hesitated, but then nodded.

“Please, tell me.”

“I...want you to feel nice,” she replied.

Leaning back, I looked into her eyes and said, “Well, I want you to feel nice, too; so may I have permission to-”

“Not today,” she answered. 

“Please?”

She shook her head. “No. Today is all for you.”

“But...that's not fair,” I protested. “Feeling nice is supposed to be mutual!”

“Shh...just put your head on my shoulder.”

Suddenly, another (very unnerving) thought occurred to me; and, now trembling, I asked, “Emma, did you mean what you said earlier...about wanting a little more?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” I continued, “can I ask you something and get a completely honest answer?”

“Yes.” 

I took a deep breath and asked, “When you said that, did you mean more for just me...or for both of us?”

“Both.”

“Then why can't I-?”

“Not today,” she insisted.

“Well, then, when can we talk about how to make you feel nice, too?”

She hesitated, but finally said, “Alyssa, look at me.”

I did.

“Soon. I promise; okay?” she replied.

Although this answer was a little too vague for my liking, I nodded.

She smiled at me, and then, with hands still moving, she said, “Come on; everything is okay. Who initiated this?”

“You did.”

“Does it feel nice?”

“Y-yes,” I admitted, as my body's responses to her touch began to very noticeably override my reluctance.

“That's good,” she said, “because I want you to enjoy it.”

“Emma, I, you...this!”

“That's right,” she said softly. “Tell me how it feels.”

The way she was smiling at me and the way her hands were caressing me, almost sensually (like she was finally starting to figure out how), I tried to put all of it into words and said, “It f-feels so incredible! Emma, I really appreciate...I mean, I love what you're doing to me right now, and the way yo-aaaah!” I gasped, grabbing onto her upper arms, as I felt my first hard contraction. “Oh, God, Emma! Oh, God, I'm so s-sorry about th-tha-”

“Shh. Don't apologize,” she said in a low voice. It's supposed to feel nice.”

“Emma...I...”

“Don't worry,” she said. “Again, whose idea was it to initiate this?”

“Y-yours.”

She nodded. “And do I look upset?

“N-no.”

“Come on, Alyssa. I know you want to...and we both know you really need to, for so many reasons,” she said, looking deeply into my eyes...

...and, acknowledging that she was right – about all of it - I finally gave in and, with a shaky sigh, rested my head on her shoulder.

“That's it; now, close your eyes,” she directed.

I did, and then nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Now, go ahead.”

And then, wrapping my arms around Emma, I let myself feel it.

To be honest, it would have been even more fun if her hands had been inside my jeans, like they were yesterday, but this still felt amazing, especially to my affection-starved body.

Seconds later, I felt her still-moving palms also begin to squeeze my backside gently, and then, almost immediately, another jolt between my legs.

“Oh, Emma!”

Her right hand slid up under my sweater and she began to caress my lower back, as her left hand slid down, just inside my waistband; and, seconds later, I wrapped my arms around her neck and arched my upper body back, barely stifling a cry as I felt another one.

A moment later, I felt myself starting to get wet...

...but, even after all of my embarrassment yesterday, I didn't try to stop it.

I didn't want to. 

As the ripples of arousal coursing through me gradually increased, my breathing became ragged and unsteady...

...and then my body, of its own accord, began gently undulating against hers.

“That's right,” she whispered. “What you're feeling, it's fine...all of it.”

Two minutes later, my panties were clinging to me wetly, but I still desperately wanted her to continue...

...and so, I tilted my hips forward, as far as I could...

...and, realizing what that meant, she did the same...

...and then, pulling me forward, she pressed the front of her lower body directly up against me...

...and I gasped loudly as I felt two more contractions rip through my pelvis in rapid succession.

And then, to my bitter disappointment, she said, “I'm...going to stop in a minute, okay?”

And, with a sinking heart, I nodded.

Unfortunately, I had no say in the matter.

But then, to my surprise, she turned her body to one side, and then, just as I had done to her yesterday, she took hold of my backside firmly with both hands; and, lifting my pelvis upward...

...and then forward and downward...

...she pulled me down onto her left hip...

...so tightly that the center seam of my jeans, as well as the crotch of my panties, were pushed up so far that they actually sank right in between my...well, you know.

And then my breath left me completely as, with her hands pressing down hard on my hips, she held me there. 

The thrill of having any part of Emma's body between my legs, and pressed up against me so tightly, was indescribable; and I desperately didn't want this to end. My entire body was waking up and wanted to keep going, for the next several hours at least, I realized...

...as I felt tremors begin shooting down my legs...

...and, seconds later, the area directly between them was shaken by another massive jolt...

...and then, to my amazement, began cramping up, in a very painful - yet incredibly welcome - way.

But, seconds later, she whispered, “Okay, honey, let's stop for now,”...

...and then, to my devastation, she moved me off her hip and pulled me close to her. 

“Let's just stay like this for a little while, okay?” she said.

Incredibly disappointed - and while doing my best to ignore my body's demands for more - I nodded...

...and then, there in Emma's arms - while breathing raggedly and trembling violently - I learned my very first lesson in self-restraint.

It wasn't an easy one.

Still, she was very patient, holding me close as I struggled to get my body under control.

Eventually, sensing that I had – at least somewhat, she let go of me.

“Emma, how can I ever thank you for-” I began.

But, suddenly, I knew how...

...and, taking her by the hand, I led her over to the bin.

Climbing in, I held out my arms, sneaking a glance at my watch as I did.

Seconds later, she had maneuvered her way into position, and leaned forward, until her lips were only an inch from mine...

...but, shaking my head, I immediately moved hers down onto my chest.

After what she'd just done for me, the kisses could wait.

“Emma, am I holding you right?” I asked tentatively.

She nodded.

“Are you sure? I mean, are my hands in the right place and everything?”

“Yes.”

“That's good; because now it's your turn to feel nice,” I said softly...

...and, with a sigh, Emma closed her eyes and settled against my chest. 

As I looked down at her, lying in my arms, I tried to sort things out, but couldn't even begin to make sense of it...any of it; especially that, after yesterday's trauma, she'd helped me/let me do all of that. 

But, then again, all of today had been her idea, and her hands had been outside, rather than inside, my jeans...

...but still?

Finally, I gave up on trying to process what had happened; resolving to try again later tonight. 

Ten minutes later, we had to get out.

Before kissing me goodbye, she asked, “Do you feel a little better?”

“More than a little,” I admitted.

“See, Alyssa? Didn't I tell you that being completely open and honest was the best way to go?” 

I nodded.

Leaning forward, she gave me a very chaste kiss...

...and then, with a warm smile, said, “I can't wait to see you tomorrow.”

Two seconds later, she disappeared out the door.

Ten minutes later, I reached into my backpack for my algebra book.

Damn it! 

I forgot all about her gift! “Well, Emma,” I thought with a smile, “I can't wait to see you tomorrow, too!”

{EMMA:}

Alyssa and the afternoon's events were foremost in my mind as I parked my truck at the municipal lot behind City Hall, at the South end of High Street, Edgewater's main shopping drag.

I needed to walk, but wasn't ready to just yet...and so, I headed into Snack Time, located two doors down and on the left-hand side of the street.

It was just past five pm, and the restaurant was crowded, but I saw an empty booth down at the far end - over by the window and with a nice view of the sidewalk - and, since the place has no host, I seated myself.

Looking around, I didn't see any families, and decided that most of the customers were single employees, who had just finished working their asses off at one of the nearby businesses and were now too tired to deal with making dinner when they got home.

I also didn't see any of the wait staff, who were probably in the kitchen picking up orders; and so, even though I already knew what I wanted, I decided to entertain myself until the waiter showed up by looking at the menu. Grabbing one out of its holder, I spread it out on the table in front of me and, bending over it, began to read. 

Less than a minute later, I heard a cheerful voice say, “Hi! Are you ready to order?”

Looking up and to my left, I smiled at the server, one who I'd never seen before...

...but I soon realized that she sure as hell had seen me...

...perhaps on one of the endless TV news stories about the 'upstart, prom-wrecking LESBIAN' ...

...because the smile slid right off her face and she immediately took two steps backward away from the table; and then stood glaring down at me in disgust, like I was three day-old roadkill.

Oh, great.

Another one. 

It wasn't the first time someone had done something like this to me...

...nor the fortieth...

...and I was well aware that it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Still, you'd think I'd be used to it by now.

But...would I ever be?

I stifled a sigh; then ordered a hot dog, potato chips, and an iced tea.

Looking out the window, I sat watching the slowly-gathering twilight and wondering what Alyssa was doing right now.

Could she possibly be thinking about me? 

It was a lovely thing to imagine, and so I gave myself over to it fully.

A few minutes later, I was jolted out of my reverie by a loud clank, as the server, whose name tag said 'Kelly', literally dropped my plate onto the table; then turned and abruptly walked away. 

Setting the ketchup bottle back in its wire caddy (yes, I'm one of those weirdos who puts ketchup on hot dogs), I turned my attention back out the window. 

I needed to clear my head.

I wanted to do it by myself. 

Virtually all of High Street's businesses were now closed, but I was waiting until their employees left, too.

I just wanted to walk in solitude; to be completely alone with my thoughts.

To be sure of it, I delayed by ordering a piece of banana cream pie...

...while pretending not to notice the scowl that was served along with it.

Shortly after I'd finished dessert, Kelly approached again. 

I held out my hand...

...but, instead of giving me the check, she slapped it onto the table and walked away without a word.

You probably think I'm crazy for leaving my standard 20% tip; however, stiffing her wouldn't have accomplished anything; well, except to maybe get me a Sneezer Salad – or worse - during my next visit. Also, she did bring my food quickly (and, yes, I'm sure that was to hasten my exit).

Whatever.

Zipping my jacket, I left.

Now that the sun had gone down, it was so cold that I could see my breath, as I headed across to the right-hand side of the street and began walking North.

High Street is Edgewater's main, non-mall shopping area; meaning there are no chain stores here. Its solid, masonry buildings date mostly from the late Nineteenth century; and the majority of them are embellished with the decorative brick and stonework consistent with the Victorian Period.

Between this and the ornate, wrought iron lamp posts which punctuate it at regular intervals, it's a very pretty street.

I didn't pay much attention to the store displays, because I wasn't really interested in them...

...well, except for one.

A block-and-a-half later, I found myself standing in front of the well-lit windows of Bond & Bradley Jewelers - who have been in this location since forever. Considering how economically depressed our area is, they do a surprising amount of business; and I'm guessing it's because they offer all sorts of custom work, which probably attracts a lot of out-of-town clients, as well as locals. 

Looking in between the store's two huge display windows, toward the recessed entrance door, I saw the 'closed' sign that was hanging on it. 

Deliberately ignoring all of the jewelry in the left-hand window, I walked over to the the right-hand one, specifically to the area of it that fronts on the street; and then zeroed in on the chest-high, extensive display of men's wristwatches.

I love watches. 

I have five of my own, which I rotate wearing, but there are several more in here that I really want to get...and one in particular.

Not a cheapo - and not a diamond-encrusted one, either - but one from the Zazz Paris collection, imported from France.

It's a nautical design, with a two-toned chrome and brass bezel in the shape of a ship's wheel. The face features Roman numerals and a date feature; and its royal blue strap is a combination of leather and heavy, textured canvas.

Overall, this watch is an incredible combination of sporty and understated elegance.

So unique...and so cool.

$195.00.

On my dresser is an antique English toffee tin, with a lion and unicorn on the lid, where I save any extra money from my allowance; and, at the end of a good week, I usually add about $15 to it.

So, hopefully, in three or four more weeks, I'll be able to buy it...if it's still here. 

And, if it's not, hopefully they can special order another one.

Because I reeeeeeally neeeeed this watch!

With a final, fond smile, I looked up from the tray of watches, realizing as I did that, thanks to the store's lighting - as well as the generous illumination from the street lamp behind me - I could clearly see my reflection in the store's window.

I leaned in slightly, to get a closer look...

...and then stood in silence...

...staring at myself for a very long time...

...until finally, leaning in even closer...

...I yelled, “You Fucking Hypocrite!”

Flipping up the collar of my jacket, I angrily jammed my hands into its pockets...

...and, turning from my reflected face, I continued walking up High Street...

...away from the brightly lit jewelry store and into the rapidly-approaching night.


	7. Chapter 7

With my eyes riveted to the sidewalk, I tramped north; glancing neither right nor left at any of the stores...

...but I've traveled this street so many times that I can list them all, in order, without even looking. 

On the first block:

The Cup & Saucer: Open for breakfast and lunch only; great marble pound cake

Oak Crest Stationery, Office & Art Supplies: A wide array of Sharpo markers, in colors you never realized you needed

Grant's Tailor Shop & Dry Cleaners: Creepy mannequin in the front window has the face of a serial killer...but is wearing an immaculately-fitted suit!

Belzer's Bakery: CHOCOLATE PIE!!!

London Hardware: White paint comes in 37 different shades...who knew?!

Stratford Men's Wear: Excellent cushy crew socks

Fischer Florist: Lovely arrangements...but who could I send them to? Not Alyssa; her mother would crucify us both!

United Restaurant Supply: Industrial-sized kitchen equipment. I never had occasion to go in here; but I've looked through the windows...and, believe me, if you want to force your enemies to play 'Bobbing For French Fries', this should be your first stop!

Paragon Press: I once picked up school flyers from here. The place smells great; like ink and new card stock.

Radford's Shoe Repair: Have resurrected my holey Converse high-tops on more than one occasion

Walden's Pharmacy: I'm a very frequent customer here; forever stocking up (abundantly) for my highly-dreaded time-of-the-month.

Bike World: “Put Something Exciting Between Your Legs!” (No; I'm not kidding.)

Sundae Best: Ice cream; closed for the winter

Play Rite Toys: Back in ninth grade, Shelby got us both banned from here. As soon as we entered the store, she (on a dare from Kaylie) approached the owner and said to him, “Hi, we'd like to look at your balls!”

I won't list the rest of High Street's businesses; but after another seven or eight blocks the commercial district ended. However, I kept going...

..even though I soon was freezing, and wishing I'd brought a cap.

And a scarf.

And gloves.

And a backpack full of flaming logs!

Barely conscious of my surroundings, my relentless steps carried me forward, past numerous empty lots...

...and then, eventually, to a very sketchy, abandoned part of town.

Before sinking into its current - and probably permanent - financial slump, Edgewater was a very prosperous city; due in large part to a booming glass manufacturing industry and numerous ancillary markets (bottled drink factories, etc.)

But, now that all of the manufacturing jobs had been moved overseas, this neighborhood, once home to many of Edgewater's wealthiest families, had been abandoned completely, leaving behind a desolate collection of boarded-up, once-beautiful mansions.

In the light of the few remaining functioning street lamps, their original grandeur was still clearly visible, despite their crumbling brickwork, sagging porches, rusting iron fences, and overgrown front yards.

The rays of the full moon behind me radiated through the naked tree branches ahead of me, throwing long, narrow shadows up and across my path. It was one of these dark patches that hid a heaved area of sidewalk, probably displaced by overgrown roots. Since I wasn't paying attention as I hurried along, hands in pockets, I nearly landed on my face.

Staggering and flailing, I somehow managed to catch myself just in time; and, suddenly aware of my surroundings, I stopped, strained my ears, and listened.

Silence.

Not another person in sight.

No cars.

No lights in any of the houses' few, non-boarded-up windows. One of these was missing its front door; and, in the dim light which filtered through its entrance, I saw its formerly magnificent grand center staircase, now littered with trash and chunks of fallen plaster.

As I stared, mourning, the wind kicked up...

...and I looked down...

...at a gutter full of broken bottles, and deteriorating fast food wrappers, liberally streaked with rancid grease. 

While aware of how badly the icy air was searing my lungs, I remained where I was, trying my hardest to forget...everything.

Suddenly, a double page of discarded newspaper sailed past my left shoulder. As it hit a nearby burnt out lamp post with a resounding thwack, the sound snapped out of my introspection

Looking behind me, I saw, to my surprise, that I'd left the lights of South High Street far behind...

...and, on very numb feet, I hurriedly retraced my steps. By the time I arrived back at my truck, I was shaking uncontrollably...

...not only because I was freezing...

...but also because I couldn't get my mind off Alyssa.

I had thought about her every step of the way.

Upon arriving home, I parked in our side yard and entered the house. Despite being cranked up full-blast, my truck's heater hadn't helped me warm up at all, so I quickly decided to leave my jacket on.

Entering our large, eat-in kitchen, the first thing I noticed was a note on the fridge; held in place with a magnet shaped like an orange wedge. It was from Grandmom, stating she was having dinner with her friend Lorraine; and that she'd left me a surprise inside.

Curious, I opened the door...

...and seconds later I stared, wide-eyed, at the huge, rectangular, dark glass casserole dish I found inside.

No.

It couldn't be...could it?

With freezing, shaking fingers I peeled back the aluminum foil on top, and my heart skipped a beat.

YES!

IT'S GLOP!!!

To the uninitiated (a/k/a rest of world) GLOP is the most incredible entree ever invented.

It's made with fusilli (spiral) pasta...plus loads of cheese and meat sauce – so much of both that, instead of holding together somewhat - like lasagna or baked ziti - it's a messy, soupy, oozy, gloppy (hence the name) melange of drippy, decadent deliciousness! Served with some crusty bread on the side, you've got yourself a swell dinner, especially on a freezing night like this one!

Grabbing an over-sized oval serving bowl from the kitchen cabinet, I loaded it up and set it in the microwave; then pulled two sesame rolls out of the freezer and put them in the toaster oven.

Next, I poured myself a large glass of ginger ale, set the table, and, five minutes later, set my entree on it.

Unfortunately, despite having spent the last ten minutes inside a warm house, I still was freezing...

...and so, I did the only logical thing: cranking the oven up, on high heat, I opened its door. Turning my chair sideways, I set another chair directly in front of it; and then, kicking my sneakers off, I sat down and, propping my legs up on the second chair, pointed the soles of my numb feet directly toward the open oven.

Ahhhh!

But...how to eat, when facing sideways from the kitchen table?

It didn't take long to figure out.

Unzipping my jacket, I set the hot bowl against my upper chest, holding it in place by wrapping my left arm around its far side. Thanks to its oval shape, it hugged me perfectly.

Then, grabbing a spoon - and with an anticipatory sigh of contentment - I looked down at my GLOP and began to shovel it in.

Once I had taken as much of it on board as I possibly could, I turned my attention to the next order of business: despite balancing a very hot bowl on my chest AND roasting my feet in front of a very hot oven, I still was freezing...but how to warm up?

Bath or shower?

After a little back-and-forth, I settled on a shower, which would kick up clouds of steam, hopefully heating the bathroom (and the Emma) that much faster; and promptly headed upstairs.

Flinging a trail of clothes onto the hall floor as I hurried toward the bathroom, I turned the shower diverter's hot water to the highest setting possible and stepped gratefully inside.

Unfortunately, twenty minutes later, I still felt like a human Popsicle. Hiking one foot up onto the tub's edge, I bent forward and felt my toes.

Damn! 

Still freezing. 

I decided to stay where I was; but ten minutes later the hot water started to run out, and I reluctantly had to give it up.

En route to my bedroom, I looked down at the trail of clothes I'd discarded...

...and, both tired and bummed out, almost left them where they were.

Almost.

No, Emma, I admonished myself. Eating like a Neanderthal is one thing...but living in squalor is completely unacceptable. Leaning down, with a sigh, I collected them all and tossed them into my hamper.

Then, still shivering, I walked over to my chest of drawers and began to get dressed: underpants, socks, sweatpants, T-shirt, Henley sweater, sweatshirt...no, hoodie, which I zipped up all the way.

At this point, I almost got into bed, but then thought better of it...realizing that I do my best thinking at my desk.

A minute later, I was sitting at it, with my elbows on its surface and my head in my hands; now officially out of distractions and forced to admit what I'd been dreading for the last several hours: the unpleasant fact that my attempt to outrun the afternoon had failed utterly.

And that it's now time to confront what actually happened.

I hadn't meant for things to unfold that way.

I had meant to be completely open with Alyssa; but I certainly hadn't...

...because, even though everything I'd told her had been completely truthful...

...I hadn't told her the complete truth. 

I swear, I tried!

More than once!

But, then again, how could I? No matter how much I know I should, I can't...

...and for more than one reason!

I can't tell anyone about this.

But, I can't continue to live like this either!

But, how can you fix something that you don't even understand?

But, how can I understand it? I mean, there's absolutely no one I can talk to about it...

...or is there?

Suddenly, I realized that there was one person I could tell.

But...should I?

And dare I?

I stared at my phone for a very long time.

No. 

I can't. 

The truth is too difficult and painful and terrifying to face.

But, then again, this problem is not going to solve itself.

Ever!

I need help.

Now.

Realizing this, I picked up my phone.

Seconds later, I set it down again.

No!

This is way too personal.

And it's going to be way too hard...and way too scary!

Turning to my right, I looked across the room, at my reflection in the lowboy dresser...

...and sat staring at myself, until, finally, I was forced to admit defeat.

Emma, you can't run from this anymore.

You can't deny it anymore.

And now, whether you like it or not, it's Decision Time.

You have to make a choice.

You're being given a chance here. A chance to resolve this...

...or you can throw away this opportunity and suffer in silence...

...which will be for the rest of your life, I realized...

...and caved completely. 

If I don't call, I'll never get over wondering what would have happened if I had. 

I can't live with regrets.

And, so, I'm going to do this.

And, no matter what, I'm going to be completely open.

I have no choice.

And, no matter what, I'm going to tell all.

I have no choice.

Still, I hesitated...

...realizing how incredibly personal this discussion was going to be...

...especially considering who I was going to be having it with...

...but, finally, sheer desperation kicked embarrassment's ass...

...and, picking up my phone, I began to dial.


	8. Chapter 8

As I dialed, it occurred to me that I was wasting my time...because this call would obviously go directly to voice mail.

But, to my surprise, it was answered on the second ring...

...and an enthusiastic voice announced, “House of Glickman! I'd ask how I can help you be even more fabulous than you already are, but we both know that's just not possible!” 

As upset as I was, this threw me completely.

“Barry? It's Emma, from school...and is that your standard phone greeting?”

“Oh, hello, Emma! Well, only when I don't recognize the number. You never know when some director or producer is calling with a lucrative offer; so a little flattery definitely couldn't hurt!”

“Oh,” I replied, taken aback, “were you expecting an agent to...I mean, am I...is this a bad time? Are you busy? What are your plans this evening? I could call back some other-”

“Well,” he replied,”Trent suggested that we all go to this dinner theater he found, two towns over.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “So, are you there right now? I could call back some other-”

“No, actually I'm not there. I opted out.”

“Why? Because you aren't feeling well? I could call back some other-”

No, it's not that. It's because...well, to be honest, the others...they're driving me crazy! All they do all day long is complain...especially Dee Dee!”

“What about Sheldon?” I asked. “Do you ever hang out with him?”

“No, he's even worse! He's so obsessed with finding a venue for our rally that he actually wants me to make phone calls! ME!!! I mean, what the hell am I paying him for? And, believe me, he doesn't work cheap!”

“Oh, so you haven't had dinner yet? I could call back some other-”

“Don't worry; I've had dinner. I found a Chinese restaurant that delivers. I think it's called 'Wok of Ages'.”

“The place that puts Scripture verses in the fortune cookies?”

“That's the one,” he confirmed.

“Well, do you have any other entertainment planned for the evening? I could call back some other-”

“Not at all,” he replied. “Actually, it's a lovely surprise to hear from you. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Um...uh...I was wondering...”

“Yes?”

After hesitating, for what felt like forever, I finally forced myself to ask, “Can we...talk?”

“Of course we can. What about?”

“Are you sure? I could call back some other-”

“Of course, I'm sure! Now, tell Uncle Barry what's on your mind.”

“I...I don't...oh, God...I...I just...”

He could sense I was struggling.

And upset. 

“Emma?”

Y-yes?”

“It's all right, Emma. Unlike the others, I haven't forgotten why I came down here...and that's to help you, in any way I can,” he replied...

...and he said it so warmly

...and so kindly...

...that I started to sob. 

“B-b-barry, th-there's s-s-something wrong with m-m-me!”

“What? Oh, no, there's not!”

“Yes, there is!”

“No, there's not!” he insisted. “Look, I have no idea what insults your hooligan schoolmates are currently throwing, but don't you dare believe them! You're way too intelligent for that! In fact, I'm surprised that you would consider anything they say to contain even a shred of tru-”

“No, it...it's not name calling. It's something physical,” I replied...

...and he exploded.

“Emma, who put their hands on you? I want names!”

“No, it's not-”

“Yes, it is!” he answered hotly. “Verbal insults one thing, but if they're subjecting you to physical abuse, it's time to get the authorities involved!” Now, I want you to tell me exactly who roughed you up!”

“Nobody did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I swear! What I meant is that I have a...a different kind of problem.”

“Oh?”

“Yes; a...a girl problem.”

There was a stretch of silence, then he said, “A girl problem? Do you mean...are you trying to tell me...you know?”

“Trying to tell you what?”

“You know.”

“Uh, not really,” I replied.

“Just a second,” he said, “while the King of Euphemisms finds the perfect one.”

I waited in silence until, finally, he spoke.

“Emma, is what you're trying to say that...that you're...menstrually indisposed?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, are you saying that you're dividing your time equally between the bathroom and your bed, due to an effusive flow and gut-wrenching cramps?”

“No,” I replied, “you missed all that fun, about a week and half ago...but I must say, your description is incredibly accurate.”

“So, it was spot on..see what I did there?”

“Spot? I wish! More like monsoon on!”

“Oh.”

When he didn't reply further, I said, “It's...it's another kind of girl problem.”

“Oh, I see. So, there's another lesbian at your school, and you both wore the exact same flannel shirt, on the same day; and now you're feeling equally humiliated and traumatized, due to the scorn and jeers of your peers?”

“No.”

“Oh, my God...it's worse?!? The same entire outfit???”

“No. Actually, it's a different kind of girl problem.”

“Oh, I see! It's a relationship problem?”

“Yes. Like I mentioned, I'm dating this girl-”

“Is she a girly kind of girl?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, kind of,” I replied.

“Let me guess...you gave her a chain wallet as a gift, and now she's giving you the silent treatment!”

“Uh...no. Barry?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you making such ridiculous – even for you – guesses?”

“Because I can hear in your voice that you're extremely upset about something; and I'm hoping to put you at ease, so you'll feel comfortable enough to tell me about it,” he said...

...and with such kindness...

...that I started to cry.

“B-b-barry!”

“Shh...it's all right...or it's going to be,” he said in a low voice. “Now, take your time about telling me. Whenever you're ready; I'm more than willing to wait.”

I couldn't stop shaking/sobbing but, finally, I managed to get out, “There's s-something wrong with...m-my body!”

“Did you not get a flu shot this winter?”

“No, I mean, yes, I did; but it's a...a GIRL problem with my body.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it sounds like what you need isn't an actor, but a gynecolo-”

“I can't go there!”

“Why not? Are you too embarrassed to, uh, hop up on the table and throw your legs?”

“No...I mean, yes, definitely, but-”

“Is it because all of the doctors in this God-forsaken hell hole are men?” he asked.

“No. Actually, it's-” 

“Because, believe it or not, there are women gynecologists,” he continued. “Would you feel less apprehensive to have a woman, rather than a man, eyeballing your-”

“No; that's not it. It's because this is Edgewater, and everyone knows all about me now; and no bible-banging doctor here - male or female - is going to give the infamous, prom-wrecking lesbian help on how to...how to lesbian better!”

Sounding puzzled, he said, “I...don't know exactly what you're trying to-”

“Can I ask you a question and get an honest answer?” 

“Yes,” he replied, without hesitation. “What do you want to know?”

“Barry, have you ever been intimate with a girl?”

“Well, let's see. I do recall several forced make-out sessions in high school, back when I was trying to coerce myself into being...wait...is this a...a sex problem?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, Emma. I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing you're underaged.”

“No, I'm not! I'll be eighteen in just a couple of months.”

“Emma, I'm sorry.”

“Barry, please!”

“Doesn't you school offer any kind of Sex Education course?” he asked hopefully.

“No. None.”

“Well, then, there are abundant resources online.”

“I can't use any of them,” I informed him.

“Why not?”

“Have you ever heard of Sin Sentry ?” I asked...

...and he exclaimed, “Yes, I think I have that DVD! Is it the one with the four gladiators, or the one about the Turkish prison that only employs big, muscly guards?”

“What? No, it's not a porn movie! Its an app, that parents use to block their kids from seeing anything that's deemed...objectionable.”

“Well, then,” he replied, “even a backwards town like this must have a bookstore? I'm sure, if you go there, you'll be able to find several-”

“Yes, we do; but it's a BIBLE bookstore. I was in there a couple of times, and the only thing they sell that's even remotely related to dating is a book entitled, 'How To Pick Up Girls For Christ!'”

Now clearly clutching at straws, he asked, “Well, then, why don't you ask Dee Dee or Angie? Maybe one - or even both of them - have dabbled with the ladies?”

“I can't do that either! If I tell them I'm having sex-related problems, Angie will try to teach me to be “gymnastically proficient”, and Dee Dee will probably suggest that I pull a chainsaw out from under the bed!”

I thought that would persuade him, but still, he hesitated. “Emma, doesn't the idea of an older man encouraging a young girl about sex strike you as, well, kind of...creepy?”

“Please,” I begged him, “there's no one else I can talk to! I-I'm sorry; I didn't mean for that to sound the way it did! I don't mean that you're a pathetic last resort. It's just that, with you being gay and all, you could probably, you know...relate.”

No answer.

“Come on,” I urged, “Think back to when you were in high school. Did you ever have a...a boyfriend problem?”

“Yes.”

“A serious one?”

Silence.

“Yes,” he finally admitted.

“And,” I continued, “during that time, did you wish you had someone to talk to about your...serious boyfriend problems?”

Silence.

Followed by a tiny sniff.

And then he said, with a slightly shaky voice, “Well, I suppose there's no harm in me listening.”

This was followed by a quiet – yet unmistakable - sigh...

...and my heart sank at his reluctance...

...but, now way beyond desperate, I refused to abandon this, my last hope; reasoning that, when he hears how horrible my problem actually is, he'll take pity on me and help.

Finally, he said, “Okay. Go ahead.”

While I was scared of the impending conversation, I was positively terrified that if I hesitated, he'd have a chance to change his mind again - and maybe permanently this time - and so, I dived right in. “You see, I'm having a problem with X.”

“What's x?”

“Not what,” I said, “but who. The girl I'm dating. She's totally in the closet, so I can't tell you her name.”

“I see.”

“We've been dating for a year and a half, and all we've done is hug and kiss; but now, she wants...more.”

“And you don't?” he asked, and then, sounding highly relieved, added, “Well, then, you don't have a problem at all! You're just not the least bit interested in sex, and there's actually a name for tha-”

“No,” I interjected, “actually, I'm incredibly interested.” 

“You are?”

Yes. I have been...for months.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure of it. You see, X and I have this place in school - I can't tell you where it is - but there's this place we go to be alone and to kiss, and now she's pushing for more. I've been kind of going along with it, but now I'm seeing that she's...feeling things, and I'm not.”

“Why do you think that's-” he began.

“It's because there's something seriously wrong with my body! And I need your help to-”

“I...I don't know...” he said slowly.

“I'm so confused...and so scared! Barry, please talk to me about this!”

I think that the tearful way I begged finally persuaded him...

...because there was a long stretch of silence...

...followed by what sounded like a sigh of defeated resignation...

...and then he said, in an incredibly bad Austrian accent, “Vell, zis iss yer lucky day, becausse doktor Sigmund Glickman is in de haus! Now, go klose yer bedroooom dur!”

It took me a second to make the connection.

He broke the silence by asking, “Ar yoo alone?”

“Yes.”

“Vell, klose thee dur anyvay; it vill make thees diskooshion seem less intimidaytink!”

“Okay. It's closed.”

“OO-kee. Neckst, kick owff yer shooz, und lie on der bed and git komfortabull.”

“Dr. Glickman?”

“Ja?”

“I deeply appreciate what you're about to do, but can you please lose the accent?”

“I'm sorry. Of course,” he agreed. “Now, lie down and get as comfortable as you can.”

Seconds later, I said, “Okay, I am; and I guess I'm ready to-wait! Do you need a minute...to grab a notebook and pen?”

“No,” he replied, “but, based on the direction this conversation's about to take, I'm convinced I'll soon need to grab my smelling salts!”

I wasn't sure if/how I was supposed to respond to that; so I waited in silence.

Finally, he said, in a very serious voice, “I'm going to ask you questions.”

“I...know.”

“And not easy ones.”

“I know; but I really want to fix this, so I swear be completely open and honest, no matter what they are.”

“Well, then,” he continued, “shall we get the worst one out of the way first?”

“Okay,” I replied, grabbing onto the edge of the mattress with my free hand.

Complete silence.

For nearly a minute.

“Barry?”

“I'm still here. Emma, I'm sorry, but I just can't.”

“Barry, please!”

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“I c-can't live like this anym-more! I'm b-begging you!” I sobbed...

...and, finally, he gave in. “All right. Let's get started. First of all, has anyone ever...I mean, have you ever been...”

“Molested? No, and I promise I would tell you if I had.”

“I don't mean just during your childhood. What about recently, such as sexual harassment; or assault, like while you were on a date?”

“No. Definitely nothing like that.”

He was silent for a moment, then said, “All right, then I guess the next question is do you think it's guilt-induced, due to your religious upbringing?”

I paused to consider this, then answered, “I...don't think so.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, are you scared that, after a romp with the girlfriend, you'll show up for Sunday services and be judged or shunned?”

“No. I don't go to church anymore.”

“Oh, no,” he said, sounding genuinely concerned, “did they throw you out?” 

“No,” I replied, “but if did ask to come back, I'm sure I'd be expected to show up with a huge sack of rocks.”

“Rocks?”

“You know, so they could kill me properly...Leviticus-style.”

“Oh, my God!” Barry gasped. “A 'bring-your-own-stones' stoning? How tacky!”

I had no idea how to respond to that.

“Okay, then,” he continued, “so I know what to ask next, why don't you describe your problem.”

I paused, collecting my thoughts as best I could, and then said, “Well, we usually just kiss; but then, one day, we...uh...you know...kinda...uh-”

“It's alright, Emma. You can just tell me. I'm sitting down.”

“Well,” I continued, “she slid my hands down inside the back of her pants...and then did the same to me; and I could tell she was really enjoying it because she was acting so, uh...”

“Frisky?” he said.

“Is that what it's called? Yes, and the way she was...the way her body was moving, I...realized that she was feeling...things; and I was...”

“You were scared?”

“No.”

“You were thinking that you're not ready for it yet?”

“No, I was...

...I was fascinated!”

“You were?”

“Yes! I've wanted to be intimate with X, for months. I mean, it seemed like it would be so lovely to be naked with her; but then, when we were touching and she started to act so...frisky, and I saw how amazing that can be, well, now I want to be with her more than ever!”

“Emma, there's nothing wrong with that.”

“Yes, there is! Because she's feeling things that I'm not...even though I'm trying so hard!”

“Well, there's your first mistake. You shouldn't have to try at all...those feelings should just happen on their own,” he replied...

...and I started to bawl. “I know th-that! And I waited and waited to start feeling them...b-but I didn't! I didn't f-feel anything! And so, I tried to m-make myself, and I still couldn't! Whatever she's feeling, whatever's happening inside her, I want to feel it, too!”

“You said that the two of you used to kiss?”

“Yes. We still do.”

“And, do you feel anything during that?”

“Yes. It feels kind of...swoopy.”

“Well, then, that's a good start!” he said encouragingly...

...but I didn't feel the least bit encouraged.

“Emma?”

“Y-yes?”

“Do you love her?”

“Y-you have no idea how much!” I sobbed. “X means more to me than-”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” he interjected, “but I'm calling a Time Out here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, calling your girlfriend 'X' sounds atrocious. If you don't want me to know who she is, then give her a fake name.”

“A fake name? Like what?”

“Well, let's see,” he said. “Cathy, Lisa, Susan, Tom, Dick, Harry, Al, Mike-”

“Al!” I exclaimed. “Let's call her Al!”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I was just joking about the men's names.”

“No; Al is perfect.”

“Well, okay then; Al it is. Now, this Al of yours; what exactly happened once she moved your hands down inside the back of her pants?”

“She did the same to me...with her own hands.”

“Yes?”

“And I tried to stop it...but she kept going; and so, I went along with it.”

“And then what happened?”

“I went home and cried my eyes out.”

“Because you felt taken advantage of?”

“No; because my body feels dead, and I don't want it to!”

“You mean...you wanted to keep going?”

“Yes! So badly! But, when I saw and felt how she was moving her body, and realized that I wasn't feeling any of that, I got scared...scared because I realized that there's something seriously wrong with me!”

He was silent for a long time.

“B-barry! Please help me! I just want to be normal!”

“Being gay doesn't mean you're abnormal,” he replied, sounding vaguely offended.

“I'm not saying that. It's just that I can't...I can't even GAY right!”

More silence.

“I w-want to be with her! But there's something wrong with me, because I'm not even able to f-f-f-eel-”

I broke down completely.

He let me cry for a little while, then said, “Okay. Let's see if we can figure this out. Now, close your eyes.”

“Th-they are.”

“All right. Now, there has to be a specific reason why this is happening.”

“I...know.”

“And I realize you're upset, but it's really important you do your best to apply logic, so we can try to determine why. I'm going to sit here and not speak; and what I want you to do - and take as much time as you need - is to consider this: is there any reason you can think of – any at all - as to why this might be happening?”

After wrestling with the problem for a few minutes, I replied, “No, I can't think of any-no, wait! Yes! I think I might know why! It could be because I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing!”

“Well,” Barry replied, “she's frisky, so you must be doing something right.”

“Well, sliding your hands around on somebody's butt is easy; but I don't know the first thing about any of the rest of it.”

“So, you're thinking that you might make a mistake and screw things up badly...and that has you feeling intimidated?”

“Yes. I...guess so.”

“Emma, have you tried talking to her about this?”

“I did try; I swear I did...but I can't!”

“Why not?”

“Because she'd probably blame herself or, even worse, she might leave me.”

“Well,” he said, “this Al sounds like a very shallow and superficial type of person, if she would leave you over something like-”

“I don't know that she will...but I can't risk it! I can't lose anybody else! My parents made it very clear to me that I'm never going to be allowed to move back home! Two years ago, I lost my Grandad to a heart attack! Grandmom has a few health issues, which I won't get into, but I know she's not going to be around forever! Everybody at school hates me! And now, if I lose Al, too...” 

Apparently afraid I'd start bawling again, he quickly changed the subject. “I see. So, you think that's the reason you're having this problem? That you don't know what you're doing?”

“What else could it be? I've wracked my brains - over and over - and I can't come up with any other possibility. Barry, please give me your advice!”

He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Well, like I said, due to your age, I can't give you advice, nor any suggestions, either; but what I can do is give you two...ideas.”

“Ideas?”

“Yes,” he replied, “two things for you to think about that might help you. Now, first, have you ever heard of auto eroticism?”

“Sex in cars?”

“No,” he replied, “auto means self.”

“Sex by yourself...with a car? How would you even...?”

“No,” he said. “It's what we gents refer to...at least amongst ourselves...as jacking off.”

“Oh, at my school it's called whacking off. I've never tried it...but, are you saying I should?”

“I'm not telling you to. Like I said, these are only ideas; but this is a good one, because it's helped countless boys-”

“Do boys do this...often?” I interrupted.

“Every chance they get!” he exclaimed. “But, seriously, self-experimentation, in a quiet, no-stress environment is the best way to figure out what you physically like and respond to...and you can then teach it to others.”

“But, I want my first time to be with Al!”

“Believe me, self-service doesn't count as your first time,” he replied. “Anyway, do you ever have the house to yourself?”

“Yes. Grandmom belongs to two different garden clubs; and now that spring isn't far off, I won't see much of her at all, for the next few months.”

“Well, like I said, just think about it.”

“What's the other idea?”

“Ask Al to show you - with her hands on you - or with your hands on her - or with her hands on your hands - what she likes. That way, getting positive 'results' will be her own responsibility; and all the pressure will be completely off you...plus, you'll also know exactly what to do in the future, which should give you some confidence.”

When I didn't reply, he continued, “Anyway, sometime when you're alone, lie down on your bed and get comfortable; and then just think over both ideas, taking as much time as you need. Whether you actually pursue either of them or not is up to you; and whatever you decide, you don't have to feel bad about it, because there's no wrong decision.”

“But, if I don't try, I'll never figure it out, will I?”

“Just think them over,” he replied...

...and, from the way he said it, I realized that our 'session' was over. The results weren't exactly the kind of help I'd been hoping for, but he had done his best...and, to be completely honest, one or both of these 'ideas' might actually work. 

“Barry, thanks. I really appreciate you taking the time to listen.”

“You're very welcome. Also, if you have more questions, feel free to call me any time.”

“It's been a long day; but I'll think over your ideas, both of them, in a day or two,” I promised.

We said goodnight and then I, way beyond exhausted, rolled over and promptly passed out.

{ALYSSA}:

Occasionally, my afternoon Phys. Ed class features a lecture - rather than actual physical torture - and, to my immense relief, today was one of those days. Our lesson: The Evils of Alcohol! Since I'd already been subjected to the same information – on countless occasions, thanks to Mom - I decided to zone out and use the time for thinking about what had just happened in the band closet. 

But I quickly realized that, considering the nature and scope of that encounter, this definitely isn't the time or place.

Tonight at home; for sure and in detail, I promised myself.

However, despite my resolve, I didn't think it over at all. The five huge library books that had been sitting on my desk for more than a week were demanding my attention, and so I started on those instead; while rationalizing that, in the interest of clarity, it would be a good idea to put a little distance between myself and the afternoon's events.

And so, I concluded, I'll be thinking things over tomorrow night instead.

XXXXX

The next morning, as I walked into the library for Study Hall, I noticed a large group of students crowded around something at the back of the room.

Approaching the area, I pushed my way to the front and saw that it was the yearly sale of used library books, dozens of which were stacked on a long folding table that had recently been set up.

While I didn't really need anything (my bookcase at home is jammed full), I still decided to see what was on offer, because you never know when you might find something useful.

Let's see: textbook...textbook...cookbook...The Utter Dumbasses's Guide To Physics...textbook...The Hopeless Twit's Guide To Golf...textbook...The Complete Imbecile's Guide To Jogging...textbook...textbook...textbook...The Pathetic Dunce's Guide To Art Appreciation...The Cretinous Dimwit's Guide To Square Dancing...etc.

Less than five minutes later, I gave up. The only decent thing I found was a nearly-new dictionary, but I already have one.

Surveying the room, I saw Kaylie looking at me expectantly, wanting me to join her, but I pretended not to notice. I just wanted to be alone; and so, I walked over to one of the single-seat desks that face the windows. However, instead of reading I sat letting my mind wander, watching the rain sluice down as I looked out over the steel gray playing fields that stretched out under the iron gray sky.

Finally, reminding myself there were far more productive uses for my time, I (reluctantly) turned my attention to my Lit notes, and began to organize them, so I could start writing my A Twist of Yate book report.

But, less than two minutes later, I looked up...

...completely stunned...

...because my normally stingy subconscious mind had suddenly handed me a gift.

And a huge one at that!

Turning in my chair, I looked back at the book sale table...

...and, at that moment, I finally figured out (and accurately, believe it or not(!) exactly what Emma's problem is!

Twenty minutes later, while walking to the band closet, it occurred to me that I should probably say something to her. 

If nothing else, it would relieve a lot of the stress she's currently under; and so, I decided, after our usual preliminary kisses, I'll hug her and not let go. Once she's settled into it, I'll just say, very casually, “Emma, I know what's been bothering you...all of it...and everything is going to be okay. I also know that you promised you'd talk to me about...feeling nice, in the very near future, and so I'm going to trust you on that. I just want you to know, in the meantime, not to worry, about any of it, okay? There's no rush at all. When you're ready, we'll sit down together and you won't have to feel scared about telling me, because I already know all about it...and then, we'll figure it out together...I promise. Oh, and I want to make it clear that, when that happens, we're only going to talk. No matter what you tell me, I won't pressure you to do it, any of it, no matter how much fun it sounds like it might be. I promise I'll wait, for as long as you want.”

I silently reviewed this, and was satisfied that it hit all the right notes: short, concise, non-judgmental, and not the least bit pushy.

Seconds later, I reached the door.

“Mention it casually!” I reminded myself sternly, and then opened it...

...to find Emma rapidly pacing back and forth in front of me; mouthing, “Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod-” over and over.

Closing and locking the door behind me, I said her name several times, but she was completely unaware that I was there. 

Finally, I took two steps forward and planted myself directly in her path...

...and was promptly slammed into. Grabbing onto her to steady myself, I almost pulled her down with me, but somehow managed to keep us both from hitting the floor.

Once I had righted us both, I asked, “Emma? What's wrong?”

“St-st-state's Attorney!” she gasped.

“Yes, what about it? You mentioned she's going to meet with you next week.”

“No! There was a scheduling mix-up...she's here right now!”

Before I could reply, she continued, “Principal Hawkins sent for me to meet them in his office in fifteen minutes!”

“You'll be fine,” I said, in my most calming voice.

“No! I won't! What if she wants a statement from me? I haven't even had a chance to-”

“Emma, you're going to be-”

“Wh-what am I gonna do?”

At that moment, my normally uncooperative mind kicked into high gear and, to my complete astonishment, handed me my second gift of clarity for that day.

Putting my hands on her shaking shoulders, I said, “Okay, I'm going to tell you exactly what to do; so pay very careful attention. First, when you're introduced, smile, shake her hand, and thank her for coming. Can you remember that?”

She nodded.

“Okay, next,” I continued, “do you have a notebook and pen in your backpack?”

“Y-yes.”

“As soon as you sit down, pull those out and start taking notes...about everything: questions that come up, instructions for what she wants you to do next, and anything else that seems important.”

“O-kay,” she agreed.

“All right. Next, if you have to give a statement, ask her, right afterward, if it was adequate, or if you need to add anything to it or change the wording in any way.”

“I w-will.”

“Next, look over your notes, and ask any questions that came up. And, don't forget, she's here to help you...and so is Mr. Hawkins. I'm sure he'll jump in if you're ever at a loss for words.”

She didn't reply, so I continued, “And, most importantly, as soon as it's over, leave me a message, letting me know how it went. I'll probably be in class and unable to answer, but I promise I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Now, repeat, everything I've just told you.”

She did.

“There, see that?” I exclaimed. “You memorized it perfectly...and so, everything is going to be okay!” 

She lowered her gaze and shrugged her shoulders.

“I promise, okay?” I said, pulling her into a hug.

She held on to me so tightly, but less than a minute later, said, “I h-have to get going.”

With a nod, I let go of her and then watched, concerned, as she walked unsteadily out the door. Locking it behind her, I crossed the room and sat down on the floor with my back against the wall. 

I had planned to skip lunch today, because the cafeteria is serving stuffed cabbage, which I hate; and so, before First Period, I'd stopped at the vending machines and bought two candy bars and two bottles of water for each of us. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to give Emma's to her before she left.

Oh, well, more for me, I thought, opening my backpack...

...and, a second later, cursing loudly. Damn it! I forgot to give her my gift...again!

Okay, tomorrow...definitely!!!

Anyway, once I'd finished the candy bars - and, yes, I ate yes, all four of them(!) - I looked at my watch. I still had almost thirty minutes to kill, and so I let my thoughts wander back to my time in study hall or, more specifically, to the epiphany I'd had there; relieved that I'd finally figured it out. 

Emma's exact problem is this: while we're making out, she's not physically feeling the same things as I am...and she's upset about it!

Oh, my God, why didn't I see it before? Especially during the countless, frustrating hours I'd spent trying to understand what was going on with her?

Well, at least I finally did figure it out, I realized, and so, I decided to celebrate...

...but, less than a minute later, that fun ended abruptly...

...because I was now forced to confront WHY she was having this problem:

It's entirely my fault!

All of those Idiot's Guides on the library table had tipped off my subconscious mind...

...which had then informed my conscious mind that it's entirely my fault...

...because I, Alyssa-Dumbass-Twit-Imbecile-Dunce-Dimwit-Greene don't know first thing about pleasing a girl!

I mean, I know what I myself like...

...but I guess it's not the same for everyone. Like most people love coffee, but Emma doesn't.

And most people enjoy bowling, but I don't. 

But then again, why hasn't she told me? Wait, who am I kidding? The answer is obvious: she wants to spare my feelings.

Well, at least I know now what's wrong...

...but, what to do about it?

Ask her? 

No, that won't work, because she probably has no idea what I should do. After all, I asked her once before, and her answer was to zip me back up!

So, again, what to do about it?

Unfortunately, I have no idea...

...because I've never had access to any Sex Ed classes...

...nor uncensored TV...

...nor uncensored internet...

...nor any real book stores.

And there's absolutely no one I can talk to.

And nowhere I can go to learn about this...

...or is there?

Suddenly, I realized that there was one resource - which had been readily available to me for the past three years - only I'd never realized/taken advantage of it.

“No!” my mind screamed. “Are you crazy? Absolutely not! You can't be that much of a desperado!”

“Stop trying to second-guess yourself!” I muttered. “That's not the case at all! A desperado move would be to learn by sleeping with someone, and this isn't nearly as bad as that! It's not even as bad as sneaking into the sleazy, XXX-rated bookstore/video shop that's located at the edge of town (which, for the record, I have no interest in - nor intention of - ever doing).”

“But, still, it's pretty bad...isn't it?” my mind insisted.

“Well, yes,” I was forced to admit, “but, then again, considering the circumstances, doesn't the end justify the means?”

I went back and forth on this countless times until, finally with a sigh, I concluded that it definitely did. And so, I made my decision.

Today.

Right after my last class ends.

The instant the bell rings, I'll be heading straight out the door of my school...and directly to the one place I can go for an incredibly explicit course in Sex Education...

A/N: Any guesses?


	9. Chapter 9

The back of the school bus is a loud, vulgar, horrid place; the air punctuated by endless cursing, non-stop crude remarks, and frequently-hurled projectiles.

No self-respecting student (especially a girl) would be caught dead back there...

...but I knew that I was going to be a regular visitor, until I learned what to do about Emma.

Why? 

Well, on countless occasions, I've heard the guys at my school comparing notes on how many girls they've 'had', and how many consecutive hours they were able to 'perform', and how much the girls loved it. 

That's so impressive!

I mean, if you can successfully “entertain” a girl - nonstop and all night long - that certainly makes you an expert on the subject...

...and so, in conclusion, what better place to learn about sex from than teenage boys?!

Therefore, I reasoned, if I sit back there and listen - proactively, and for long enough – then, even though I myself don't have a wang, I'm sure I can pick up some useful tips.

The instant my last class ended, I rushed out the school's side door, in order to be first on board; yet still I cringed as I made my way down the aisle and took a seat at the very back (so no one could sit behind me, lean forward, and stare down the front of my v-neck sweater).

Slumping down in my seat as far as I could, I pulled the biggest textbook out of my backpack and did my best to hide behind it. 

Approximately two minutes later, the next student walked in...and headed to the back...and I was promptly crushed up against the window by the hulking mass of Jack Westley, from the school's wrestling team, who decided to sit next to me.  
He didn't acknowledge me in any way; but, even though I could now barely breathe, I deeply appreciated the additional camouflage of his huge body.

As the bus slowly began to fill up, I peeked over the top of my book and saw Shelby sitting five rows ahead; but, due to my strategic positioning, I”m pretty sure she didn't notice me.

Anyway, to make a long story short(ish), I won't subject you to all the verbal sewage I heard that day; only the relevant stuff.

A few minutes later, we pulled out of the school parking lot. After a prolonged, profanities-laced discussion amongst the guys about some bad hockey call they'd watched on TV last night, Drew McDonald shouted, “Hey, Ed, how's it going with Amy?”

Instantly, all conversation stopped, and every single head swiveled in Ed's direction, and every single guy (plus one very clueless girl(!) stared at him in wide-eyed anticipation.

“Like crap!” he shot back. “Second base is as far as she'll let me go.”

{I didn't know Amy played baseball.}

Drew laughed and taunted, “I'm surprised a loser like you even got to first base.”

Ed rolled his eyes. “It's easy to get them to kiss you; but anything beyond that...”

Drew nodded sagely, then added, “Well, I guess second base is better than nothing...especially with boobs like hers!”

“You got that right!” Ed replied, getting to his feet, grabbing onto his own pecs with both hands and jiggling them up and down, as the guys around him laughed and whooped.

I took my time walking home from the bus stop.

I had a lot to think about.

So, it seems Amy doesn't play baseball after all. Instead, those two were using it as...a metaphor for sex? Well, assuming that's true, then I guess: first base = kissing. Second base = playing with someone's chest. Third base? Probably = grabbing someone's backside. And a home run = your hands (and/or wang(?) between their legs?

Oh, and for the record, I know what guys' wangs look like, because I've actually seen one! Not a real one, of course, but a picture of a marble one; in (believe it or not) one of our school library's books! The book was entitled Biblical Art Treasures, which is why, despite containing nudity, it's been overlooked – again and again – during the PTA's frequent anti-filth sweeps. 

Anyway, it's a huge, coffee table-type book, which features, among other things, several full-page-sized photos of statues by the Renaissance artist Michelangelo. One of these is called 'David', as in David and Goliath of the bible; and, believe it or not, this statue is completely naked! I mean, not even a fig leaf! Anyway, after studying this illustration long and hard (in a remote corner of the library, of course), I now have idea what guy 'personals' look like...and, after a bit (okay, a lot) of reflection, an idea of how they're used. 

But, I mused, since girls don't have one, then how do they 'do it' with each other...or by themselves?

Moments later, I stopped dead in my tracks...

...as, without warning, the ugly truth hit me like a filthy sock:

I'd skipped second base completely! Instead of spending any time on Emma's chest, I'd gone straight from first to third base and touched her butt! Is that why she was so hesitant and so unresponsive...because I'd broken protocol?

And should I formally apologize to her for that?

Unfortunately, none of the countless etiquette books Mom forced me to read had contained any advice on the subject.

Upon arriving home, I found a note on the fridge. She wasn't going to be home until late...which was fine by me...

...because I had some very important, uh, research to do!

Less than two minutes later, I was standing, still completely dressed, in front of the full-length mirror on my bedroom closet's door.

I thought back to Drew's earlier revelation. He hadn't actually described any specific 'how-to' techniques, so how do you...?

Realizing that I was going to have to figure it out for myself - via trial and error - I raised my right hand, extended its index finger, and carefully pressed it against my left breast; while studying my reflection closely.

Nothing.

Okay; let's try something else. 

I started tapping my finger against it repeatedly.

Nothing.

Next, I pressed both of my hands against my chest and began sliding them all the way up and down my front. 

Nothing.

Now nearly out of ideas, I grabbed my breasts with both hands and jiggled them up and down, like Drew did with his own.

Still nothing! 

I then thought back to all the time I spend in the shower; trying to remember if I'd ever inadvertently 'enjoyed' washing my chest.

Unfortunately, I was pretty sure I hadn't.

What the hell? 

How do you...activate them?

Maybe it's like tickling, I reasoned...easy to do to someone else, but hard to do to yourself?

Now what?

Unfortunately, I thought, I have no reference as to what it feels like to-no, wait! Actually, I do!

On more than one occasion, while hugging Emma, I've really enjoyed the sensation of her chest smooshed up against my own.

Well, at least, that's a start...and one that I can build on.

Taking two steps forward, I smooshed my chest up against the mirror.

Hard.

Nothing.

Maybe it only works when there are two extra breasts involved?

Okay. Upon reflection, I guess my b(r)e(a)st strategy is this: The next time she's having a good day and we're hugging, I'll smoosh my chest up against hers; and then tell her how nice it feels...and then casually ask her if it feels nice to her, too. If it does, I'll move my upper body around a little against hers and ask if she likes that. Whether or not she does, I'll then climb into the bin with her, lie on her chest, and kiss it (through her shirt), and see if that works. She probably won't mind this because I've already spent so much time with my head lying on it (her idea(!), and sometimes with my chin directly between them...so, she might actually like it.

And if she doesn't, well then, back to the back of the bus!

I ate dinner alone (Mom still wasn't home); and then I made a beeline to my room in order to get in some last-minute studying for tomorrow's test. 

It wasn't until after 10 pm that I suddenly jerked my gaze up from my notes and gasped.

Oh, my God!

Emma!

I promised I would call her right after school ended...but I'd completely forgotten!

Shit!!!

She's probably a complete wreck by now, I thought and, snatching my phone, checked my messages.

Sure enough, there was one from her.

Time stamped 1:37 pm.

Holding the phone to my ear with a shaking hand, I listened to her say: “Hi, it's me. I just got out of there. It wasn't too bad. She asked me to fill out a couple of forms and then gave me an overview of what the process is like...and, yes, I took notes! I didn't have to give a statement or anything...but, still, I'm relieved that it's over. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for the way you tried to help me calm down before the meeting. I know I don't say this very often, but I want you to know that I notice - and really appreciate - everything you do for me. Oh, and as much as I'd like to hear from you this evening, I know that your big History test is tomorrow, so please don't call me. I'd much rather you spend that time on yourself, studying.”

I set my phone down on the desk and stared at it.

Aww! She's so thoughtful.

And so unselfish!

And so...

...I looked across the room at my bedside clock. 

10:28.

Impulsively, I snatched my phone again and hastily dialed her number...

...which was picked up on the second ring...

...but before she could say a word, I blurted out, “You don't have to say it back, Emma, but I love you...so very, very much!”

Immediately, I hung up and then stared at my phone, my heart pounding.

Would she call me back?

I checked my clock again.

10:31.

She was well-aware of my 10:30 phone curfew, so maybe that's why she's not calling?

Or maybe it's because she's (still) too afraid to say it back to me?

Or maybe it's because I specifically instructed her not to?

Unfortunately, I had no idea.

XXXXX

Th next morning, I awoke feeling uncharacteristically confident. But then again, I'd spent so much time studying for this test that I pretty much knew every single assigned chapter, forward and backward.

As soon as I flipped my test paper over and did a fast, preliminary scan of it, I felt even more confident; because everything I saw on there looked pretty familiar to me.

An hour later, I walked out of History and into Study Hall feeling incredibly optimistic.

And less than an hour after that, I walked out of Study Hall feeling positively ecstatic, because we'd actually been dismissed fifteen minutes early!

Yay!

More time with Emma! 

This was an exciting prospect, especially since we'd barely had a chance to talk yesterday; I thought as I sprinted up the hall...

...but, before rounding the corner into the West Wing, I came to a complete stop. 

However, I soon resumed my steps, although now proceeding on tiptoe, because I really wanted to surprise her.

And surprise her I did...

...because the instant I flung open the band closet door she looked up at me from the far side of the room, completely startled, like a deer in the headlights.

“Uh, hi, Alyssa; you're here early,” she said.

A second later, she gasped, and then immediately flung her hands – and whatever was in them – behind her back.

“What's going on?” I asked, more than a little suspicious.

With a wide, forced smile, she asked, “So, how did your test go?”

“Emma, you didn't answer my question: what's going on in here?”

“Hey, is that a new sweater?”

“Stop changing the subject; what's going on in here?” I demanded.

“Why are you here so early?”

“Emma! What are you up to?”

“N-nothing.”

“Really?” I replied, crossing the room to where she stood. “Well, then, why do you look guilty as hell?”

When she didn't answer, I asked, “What are you holding in your hands?”

“N-nothing.”

“Let me see.”

After fumbling behind her back for a few seconds, she extended two empty ones. “See? Nothing.”

“Well, yeah, nothing now because you just shoved whatever it was into your back pockets!”

“Wow, Alyssa, why the third degree? Can't you just say that you're happy to see me?”

“Of course, I am!” I answered, flinging my arms open wide.

With a smile, she moved into them...

...and I wrapped them around her waist...

...and then, in an incredibly rude move, I shoved my hands into her back pockets, grabbed what was in both of them, and then, taking two steps backward, stared at what I'd retrieved. “Well, well, well...what have we here? It looks like a pen...and a memo book! I wonder what's written in it?”

“Alyssa, no! Please don't open that!”

“Why not? I asked. “What could it possibly be...a collection of your other girlfriends' phone numbers?”

Clearly panicked, she made a wild grab for it, but I snapped my arm up and backward, and her hand closed on empty air.

“Alyssa, I'm begging you, please don't look!” 

At that moment, I looked closely into her eyes, and clearly saw the desperation in them, and my attitude promptly changed...

...from teasing to incredibly concerned.

“Emma,” I said slowly, “I...I think I may have to read it.”

“Please, no!”

“Why not?”

“I can't tell you!” she said, her voice shaking.

“Because it's...something bad?”

Her gaze dropped to the floor; but not before I saw the fear in her eyes.

And, in that moment, my mind dropped to a very dark place. One that I didn't like...but then again, why else would she be so desperate for me not to look?

Taking a deep breath I said, as gently as I could, “Emma, I don't really want to, but I think I may have to read it, because I'm worried. I know how much stress you're currently under, between classes, and our classmates, and the prom being canceled, and the state's attorney showing up yesterday, and those actors making things even worse; and so, I'm afraid of what's written in here. Is it a journal where you...are you thinking about...are you planning to h-hurt yourself?”

She shook her head.

“No, Emma. Look at me.”

She raised her eyes to mine.

“Now,” I continued, “I'm going to ask you again. Why are you so afraid for me to see what's in your notes? It must be something really bad, or you wouldn't mind. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me the truth; are you planning to hurt yourself?

“N-no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I promise.”

“Well then, since you don't want me to read it, it must be something else that's just as bad?”

“I swear it isn't!” she declared...

...and with such unmistakable honesty...

...that my mind promptly did a 180. “Then, are you saying that it's something...something good?”

She nodded...

...and, suddenly, I saw the whole picture.

Widescreen.

“Oh, Emma!” I squealed. “You don't want me to see it because it's...is it?” Lowering my arm, I looked excitedly at the memo book...

...but, less than a second later, she snatched it from my hand.

“Emma, is it?” I gasped.

“May I please have my pen back, too?” she said, extending an upturned palm.

I gave it back to her without hesitation, while saying, “Emma, I need to know! Is...is it?!?”

“Maybe,” she said with a dismissive shrug, stuffing it, along with her pen, into the bottom of her backpack.

But I was far from willing to dismiss it. “Tell me!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not,” she said flatly.

“No, I don't!” I insisted. “Tell me! I neeeeed to know...right now!”

Emma shook her head. “No. You're going to have to wait; it's in less than two weeks.”

“I'll die of curiosity long before then! Why can't you just tell me early?”

“I just told you why.”

“Is there any other reason?”

“Well, yeah, I also need more time to get the details worked out,” she said...

...and my eyebrows shot up. “Details? Plural? As in, there's more than one?”

“Yes.”

“Tell meee!”

“No.”

“And...and you have to work on it, so...is it a song?”

She shook her head. “It's not a song.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I assure you, it's not a song.”

Feeling bratty, since she was withholding information, I demanded, “I want a song!”

“Alyssa-”

“I want a song!” 

“But, I haven't even had a chance to-”

“Emma Nolan, I want a song...and I want it right now!”

“Okay! Okay!” she shouted...

...and then, clearing her throat dramatically...

...she sang loudly (and deliberately off-key, that bitch(!) the following “lyrics”:

“Her name's Alyssa Greeeeeeeene

She's about to turn eighteeeeeeen

And she's the biggest pain in the ass I've ever seeeeeen!”

I promptly gave her 'performance' two thumbs down.

She pretended not to notice. “Happy Birthday,” she said, in an infuriatingly-offhanded way, “I hope you enjoyed your gift.”

“Wh-what?” I spluttered. Th-that's it?”

“Well, you said you wanted a song,” she retorted.

“B-b-b-but-”

Yanking her memo book out of her backpack and waving it at me, she added, “Thanks for sparing me all the extra effort of planning. I can just burn these notes now; all 37 pages of them!”

“Nooooo!”

Shoving her book into her backpack again, she then crossed her arms and said, stoically, “Well, then, convince me why I shouldn't.”

I opened my mouth to reply - with an incredibly sarcastic response - but then I fiiiinally remembered...and highly relieved, I said, “Oh, while we're on subject of gifts...”

I snatched my backpack off the floor, and, less than a minute later (and with heart pounding), I handed Emma's present to her.

She looked more than a little surprised. “Uh, what's the occasion?”

With a very serious expression, I answered, “To guilt you into telling me what you're plann-just kidding! I saw this while I was out-and-about, and immediately thought of you.”

“Should I open it now?” she asked doubtfully.

“Yes!”

She did...

...and her entire face lit up. “Oh, wow, Alyssa! I've always wanted to try this, ever since I first read the books...and I did look, but no one around here seems to sell it. Thank you!” she exclaimed, taking two steps forward.

The moment her lips left mine, she said, “Let's try it right now!”

I shook my head. “No, that's all for you.”

“But-”

“Emma, I insist! But don't worry; someday we'll buy a box together and eat the whole thing in one sitting! I promise!”

She nodded agreeably, then asked, “Well, do you mind if I wait until I get home to try it? There's nowhere here to wash off all the powdered sugar, and I don't want people to think I'm a druggie.”

“You're not?” I teased, deliberately ignoring the dirty look she shot my way as she stowed the box in her backpack.

Straightening back up, she asked, “So, what does you mom have planned for the two of you for your birthday? Has she told you?”

“Well, no; but one thing I do know is that she has to give a presentation at some big deal real estate luncheon; and she'll be busy with that from 10 am until 3 pm. I'm not sure what she has planned for us to do the rest of the day; but I'm thrilled that I'll at least be free of her for those six hours!”

Emma smiled, then said, “You never told me how your history test went.”

“I actually finished it early and had time to go back and check my answers. Overall, I think I did pretty well,” I replied. 

“I'm sure you did!” she gushed. “ After all, as much time as you spent-oh! Also, you didn't tell me why you were early today?”

“Oh...two guys showed up at the library, with a ladder and a huge case of fluorescent tubes, and so we were dismissed 15 minutes early.”

She nodded, then asked me, “What are your plans for the weekend?”

“I'm sure Mom has something lined up for me to do around the house...like building a new addition!”

Her eyebrows shot up, but before she could reply, I added, “Actually, I saw her writing a loooong list of projects that I'm supposed to do...over the next several days!”

“Bummer.”

“True, but she's going to be busy with clients, so at least I'll be able to do them alone; instead of her micromanaging me while breathing down my neck the entire time.”

Emma glanced at her watch. “Uh, sorry, but I have to go.”

“So soon?” I replied, trying to sound as disappointed as possible (not much acting required).

“Yes. Due to yesterday's meeting with the state's attorney, I missed part of my Lit. class, and now I have to go and see about catching up.”

I gazed at her with my saddest eyes.

It didn't work...

...and so, as she neared the door, I jumped squarely in front of it, blocking her path.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “I just told you I have to leave.”

“Well, you're not going anywhere until I get the rest of that song!” I retorted.

“What?”

“That's right, Mister Nolan; you owe me a second verse!”

“B-but-”

“Do you want me to demand a third verse, as well?” I threatened.

“Okay! Okay!” she agreed, exasperated.

And then, as I stared at her expectantly, and with arms folded...

...she 'serenaded' me with the following:

“In less than ten minutes, I have to be in my next claaaaass

And if Alyssa Greene won't let me paaaasss

I'll throw her over my knee and smack her naked aaaaass!!!”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really? You wouldn't do that...would you?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, “because, judging by the eager way you just asked, you'd enjoy it too much.”

“What?!?” I replied, incredulous. “Who in their right mind would enjoy being spanked???”

Instead of answering, she leaned in and kissed me.

Seconds later – and with a sigh - I reluctantly stepped aside so she could leave.

With an appreciative nod, she turned and took two steps in that direction...

...but then, stopping abruptly, she turned back to face me and flung her arms around my neck...

...and, holding onto me tightly, she whispered, “Alyssa, I love you, too!”

A second later, she let go, spun around, and sprinted out the door.

Sticking my head out, I watched, smiling like an idiot, as she tore down the hall and disappeared around the corner. 

Later that evening, my phone's ring tone made me lift my eyes from my Lit notes...and turn them toward my nightstand clock.

10:29

???

Picking up my phone, I turned it on...

...but before I could even say hello, Emma added, “...so very, very much!”

A half-second later, she hung up...

...and I went to sleep happier than I'd been in many a month


End file.
